


And I hold my breath

by smilingcrescent



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, Hogwarts Fifth Year, Horcruxes, Horror Elements, Light Romance, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mystery, Pre-Slash, Psychological Trauma, Self-Discovery, Suspense, Tension, Unreliable Narrator, clouded consciousness, crazy!harry, grey characters, neurodivergent, possibly insane suspense, smart!Voldemort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 08:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 97,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smilingcrescent/pseuds/smilingcrescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry has been a little off since the graveyard. He sees more than a closed door in his nightly visions, and he's losing his grasp on reality.  The memory charm around the student population isn't helping. Who has Voldemort allied with? Riddle, always suspicious, seems to be a symptom of something larger.</p><p>Between lessons at Hogwarts, where the professors resolutely insist that nothing is wrong, and the strange glances Harry gets in the Great Hall, it's only natural that he makes friends with a Slytherin Tom Riddle, even if he doesn't understand everything about the boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: flesh, bone, and blood

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That night at the Graveyard, bone, flesh and blood brought Voldemort forth. (June 24th)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** not suitable for children or young teens. **trigger warning** for torture; dark magic rituals; blood-letting.

**Prologue:** bone, flesh, and blood.

In the grey light, the whole world was as a dream. Harry’s heart ticked away the seconds as he caught his breath. The Triwizard cup lay somewhere in the mist, but he couldn’t see it. To his side, Cedric Diggory scrambled to his feet.

 Hauling himself up, Harry asked, “Did anyone tell you it was a Portkey?”

 Cedric stared into the distance, his grey eyes narrowing. “No. And you?”

 The mist curled around them like an ocean. It undulated and pulsed with the unseen, and Harry could taste the bitter metal. It was unseasonably cold, and on his injured leg, Harry thought he couldn’t run fast enough. “…we’re not in Hogwarts, are we?” Harry fumbled for his wand. “We need to get out of here. This is a graveyard.” And Harry knew in that instant that this was a trap. Just as promised in the dream, someone had taken Harry to Lord Voldemort.

 As the puzzle fit together, he saw them. A short, robed figure among the graves, framed by a moon that should have hid her face. He was very near, and held a bundle that Harry knew wasn’t a baby. Red eyes found him. “Kill the spare,” the high pitched voice demanded.

 And just like that, the robed figure rushed in. It was Wormtail, wand raised high in the darkness, casting the Unforgivable Curse. “ _Avada Kedavra_!”

 Cederic fell. In the shadow of the graves, he fell.

 Harry felt himself take in a huge breath, shocked. His mind was reeling, someone was screaming. Harry clutched at his wand, and practically fell next to Cederic. But there was no life in those eyes, only a frozen look of surprise on his face. Cederic was dead.

 Wormtail’s hands, twisted from the years he’d spent as a rat, grabbed Harry. He muttered and hissed, dragging him along. Harry barely registered that the graves were all old ones, but as Wormtail shifted and strained, bending Harry’s hands behind him, he saw it. A large headstone with that name written there: _Tom Riddle._

 His mind seized every detail and started spinning it round and round, trying to make sense of Voldemort’s cruelty. The graveyard; Tom Riddle’s grave; Cedric, dead; Voldemort, here. Here. Then something made a noise in the treeline. He looked up, startled, hoping to see a familiar face; someone to go for help. Voldemort might have chosen this place, so far from Hogwarts to take Harry’s hope away, but even now, Harry’s mind worked to fool himself—someone would come. He wouldn’t be alone, one fourteen year old boy at the mercy of his enemies.

 There in the trees, shrouded in shadow and mist, were people—hazy shapes. But then, perhaps it was only trees in the wind.

 Harry felt anger welling up inside him—Cedric was dead. _Voldemort_ had him, and yet he hadn’t been killed yet. Why? “What do you want from me, Wormtail? _Tom_ Riddle.”

 Voldemort’s laughter was eerily like the wail of a child, but even still... his flat eyes were like those of an ancient, predatory thing, and Harry wondered how he’d ever seen the tiny figure as anything remotely childlike. “Tonight, Potter, the blood of my enemies will give me strength. Soon, I will have my body back. Wormtail! See that he is _well tied._ You have his wand? Good. Take the knife.” Fierce determination, and no small amount of impatience, kept Voldemort from saying more.

 “You think you’ve won!” Harry shouted. “All the blood in the world couldn’t make you right again.”

 Wormtail hauled Harry up against a large headstone checked and double-checked his ties. He took no chance, though, and with a burst of transfiguration Harry wouldn’t have thought possible of the man. The stone changed into the semblance of a woman who looked down on him with stone eyes and a mouth curved in eternal warning.

 Harry laughed, feeling sick and light-headed. “An angel? For Tom Riddle.”

 “Holy Mary!” someone said, too high pitched and far away to be anything but a shriek. They didn’t move, though, and Harry strained against his bonds to see silvery curls in the starlight. He didn’t recognize the man.

 “Help me,” Harry screamed. “Please!”

 The man only shook his head, and averted his eyes.

 “Quickly.” Voldemort’s voice hissed through the dim light, pulling Harry’s attention back to the present. “The spells are in place. The cauldron awaits us.”

 Then Wormtail’s hands shot out toward Harry’s face—dirty, pale and cold as they were. Harry opened his mouth to scream, to bite, to—and choked as a colourless rag twisted against his mouth, his cheeks. It cut into him, so that he could barely breathe.

 Wormtail scurried. The blond man shrank away from him, stumbling as far back as he could. Wormtail wasn’t looking, though, unveiling a cauldron—the biggest Harry had ever seen. It could easily hold a man. That thought sent shivers down his spine. Wormtail bent down, lowering the horrible bundle into the cauldron. It sunk beneath the liquid with a faint hiss, and then a soft noise as its small form hit the bottom.

 Wormtail kindled flames and rose up with his wand at the ready. He circled the cauldron three times, murmuring slowly as he did so.

_“Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!”_

 At Harry’s feet, the ground cracked open. Something dull white and yellowed with age rose from the grave-dust. On command, it flew to where Wormtail stood. He plucked it from the air and dropped it into the cauldron. The fire roared as the bone sank into the liquid. A fiery, watery birth for Lord Voldemort. Harry felt his heart speed. This couldn’t be happening.

  _Let him fail! Let it drown… let it drown…_ Harry thought feverishly, wishing and hoping.

 Wormtail’s breath hitched, his voice shaking all the more. He drew a sharp blade from his cloak, and his hands shook. He held the blade to his wrist—the hand with the missing finger.

  _“F-flesh—of the servant—w-willingly given—you will – revive – your master.”_

 Wormtail held out his arm, his other hand trembling. Wormtail hissed as the blade came close and Harry understood what the man meant to do. He closed his eyes, unable to watch, but equally incapable of unhearing Wormtail’s agonized moan. His voice shook for a long moment, becoming a keening wail that got louder and louder. Until Harry realized he was standing right before him. Wormtail’s face was a mask of agony.

 Harry stared into those black eyes, horrified. But there was nothing he could do, tied so tightly to the headstone. He tried just the same, pulling against the ropes, trying to move, trying to summon his magic. He felt the limits of his body then, more aware now that he was made of flesh and blood like any other person. Whatever magic he might have was incapable of undoing whatever damage Wormtail was about to inflict on him. Fear and the possibility of being maimed, irreparably hurt—damaged—was worse than the actual cut. A sharp sting. His blood fell from his right arm, but not much of it.

 Wormtail fumbled to catch it in a glass vial. He squeezed at the wound to get enough of it, and Harry winced. Wormtail staggered back to the cauldron.

  _"B-blood of the enemy . . . forcibly taken ... you will. . . resurrect your foe."_

 The cauldron’s contents were violently red before Wormtail poured Harry’s blood in. The liquid sparked and morphed into a searing bright light. A mist-like vapour erupted from the cauldron so that Harry couldn’t see anything. Not the Triwizard cup glinting in the starlight, not even Wormtail, who lay beside the cauldron. Harry felt dizzy, hoping against hope that this had been a good sign. That it hadn’t worked.

Voldemort took a fierce intake of breath, seeming to smell the night air anew. The mist settled around him as a cloak of darkness and light, shaping itself as it shimmered into robes blacker than the night around them. Harry saw the tall, slender shape of a man, bone white and terrifying. Voldemort drifted further upward from the cauldron, pulling his legs up and then touching them gently down to the earth. His red eyes flickered to the treeline, and he gave a smile.

 And then Voldemort laughed, silhouetted against the mist as he drew himself far above the ground. Not the high wail of a child, but an older sound, though cold and callous still. “Such a warm welcome. It has been so long since I have stood on this ground. Dear Father…servant…and enemy. Thank you for your contributions.”

 “You proposed a gift to me.” The excitement and anticipation scared Harry more than the horrific ritual.

 A shape separated itself from the others, a strange figure in tattered clothing drifted forward. He gave a sketchy bow and offered one hand, palm up. Harry couldn’t see, but when Voldemort moved to take the thing, the man closed his fingers around it and walked slowly, meaningfully, back to the cauldron.

 “No.” Voldemort said simply. “That is not its purpose.”

 Unworldly laughter trembled on the wind, swaying with the trees. “You would have your youthful strength once more? Your shape reflects the vessel you inhabited. It is not comely. This one…will be.”

 Harry hadn’t thought anyone would so blatantly go against the Dark Lord, but there, right in front of him, was someone doing just that. Opening his hand to drop the piece of jewellery into the cauldron. It landed with a hallow clunk; no liquid there any longer.  

 Voldemort’s hands were impossibly fast. A hiss of displeasure was the only warning the man got. A jagged hole ripped through, unspoken magic rendering the man in two. He fell. “Tsk, tsk…we’ll have none of that. I know you better than any man alive. Your folk will not be making my plans.” Voldemort waved and the body began to disassemble itself into parts—shimmering with magic, blood, and bone before that too lost its colour. Voldemort screamed his displeasure. And only then did he turn to Wormtail. “My wand, you fool!” But it seemed the second ritual didn’t need any wizard’s hand to tend this new potion.

 Dizzy, Harry breathed in deep. He wriggled against the bonds, trying to force his hands around them. He had go get out—his breath was coming too fast. He was panicking, and his vision began to blur— dizzy and sick with fear, he missed the second flash of white light and mist.

 The world shook. Softly, smoothly, the Dark Lord took his time. He circled the cauldron, looking into its depths with wild curiosity, his wand now in hand. He chuckled deep in his throat. “What a predicament. I cannot change it back… you seek to force my hand. But no matter. If it can be done…”

 Harry’s mind swam, uncomprehending. It seemed something—many things—laughed all around him. Were there Death Eaters? Harry still saw no one but Wormtail, the light haired man, and Voldemort.

 Wormtail sagged against another grave, weak and useless after his exhortations.

 There was a boy who looked so dazed that Harry couldn’t recognize him for a moment. He struggled to stand—there was nothing of the dangerous, quiet control that Voldemort displayed. The boy shook with pain and confusion.

 “Well, well, what a gift. Is he to be my elixir of youth?” Voldemort chuckled. He reached into the cauldron and plucked out the little bit of metal jewellery. “There was a curse on this…I suppose it has been stripped away with your making.”

 The boy stared. “I called to you.” He said flatly. “No one ever answered.”

 Voldemort tilted his head, red eyes shining. He said nothing, and instead reached for his younger self and carried him to what could only be described as a stone sarcophagus. He whispered the words to a spell, his red eyes gleaming as the boy stilled. Voldemort spoke softly. “Listen as your heart beats. Furiously winding tighter the mechanism to your demise. Tom Riddle; feel your breath catch as your blood drains and know this... Power and knowledge will be at your fingertips, and I shall show you a new eternity. You will, once more, be mine.”

 The boy’s face was pallid, and after a moment’s pause, Voldemort slashed with his wand. A red line appeared on the boy’s throat. He bled, but was unable to cry out, his vocal cords damaged. The dark eyes filled with fury.

 Harry could imagine the words on the boy’s lips; _Expelliarmus_. Wormtail’s wand flew through the air into the boy’s bound hands, even as the vicious wound closed.

 Voldemort laughed high.

 “Master! You promised. You did promise.” Wormtail said beseechingly. His robes were blood-stained now, the stump of his hand wrapped in them. Harry dimly noted the large snake slithered not far away in the grass.

 “Give me his robe.” The boy—Tom Riddle—demanded. There wasn’t an ounce of weakness in him. He commanded authority even though he could only manage to shudder there on the sarcophagus, inch by inch forcing himself to move away.

 “It is no matter.” Voldemort said softly. “You will be gone again before the hour; I will make another.”

 “There is another boy.” Tom’s teeth chattered as he glared fiercely in Harry’s direction. “Use _him._ I shall not die to make you young.”

 Voldemort considered. Harry began to shiver. The man’s serpent-like gaze found him and held him, and he murmured quietly. “You wish me to use his blood. Two purposes to choose from; to seal you tighter to this form, or to give me some semblance of youth and strength. But why not?”

 Harry flexed against the bonds, struggling for a deeper breath. When Voldemort came for him, he’d drop straight down, run for his wand, and reach for the Portkey. He’d escape. He would.

 Voldemort was faster than he’d thought possible. Long white fingers lingered very near, but still he did not touch. Harry remembered the damage he’d done to Quirrel three years earlier, and dared to hope. The Dark Lord peered into Harry’s eyes without remorse. “I had hoped my Death Eaters to see you once before I killed you.” He said simply, and reached for Harry’s arm. When he was not burned, he began to laugh, and cut away the ropes. Voldemort’s wand was pointed straight at him, and Harry felt excruciating pain as a spell hit him, followed swiftly by another.

 Harry felt his body stiffen, felt all semblance of control drift away. He couldn’t panic… Voldemort’s spell wouldn’t last forever… he would have a chance— Harry gasped as he was lowered painfully onto the sarcophagus.

 Riddle had managed to roll off, but Voldemort only hummed reproachfully and magically lifted him onto the sarcophagus as well.

 Harry’s vision wavered at the sight of the dagger, his mind screaming for him to throw off this paralysis—to do something—but what could he do? It seemed Voldemort would kill them both. Their blood would mingle on the stone, and Voldemort would take them both _for vanity_.

 Harry thought all the counter spells he knew, but he couldn’t even manage to tense as he saw the dagger. Once again he felt a sharp, searing pain, and then a strange numbness. His wrist felt to be on fire, overly sensitive, even. Pain wracked his body, his fingers, his arms, all the way up his shoulders hurt. He had never been more conscious of his heartbeat, franticly beating—fast—faster. Harry wanted to close his eyes, to calm his heart.

 Voldemort seemed to be siphoning the blood with his wand, two rivulets of red crossed and joined, then broke apart again before merging at the tip of the wand. Harry wondered how long before he lost consciousness, how long before he—but if Riddle had somehow managed to heal himself—

 Tom sprang up. Wild eyes and teeth stained red, he jabbed with Wormtail’s wand, healing Harry and Tom’s wounds in a burst of magic. Harry was pushed off the stone in an awkward sitting position, which nonetheless allowed him a clear view of the graveyard, but he could not move. Whatever Tom had done, he hadn’t lifted Voldemort’s Body Bind, or whatever it was.

 Tom smiled, bright and bloody. He reached up, pulling Voldemort down, his young hands pulling the white face closer. He smothered Voldemort's pale lips with a fiery passion that Harry didn't want to understand. And in an instant, Harry caught a whispered snatch of a serpentine vow.

 " _If you take my magic, I'll have you. You think you can absssorb my magic? No. Sssee thisss_!" Tom hissed. " _I will take everything. I will devour you._ "

 Voldemort stared at his younger self, and smiled. “ _Youth’sss arrogance. What ussse have I of my youngest ssself? No. I will change you back, or I will have you.”_

 Tom tore himself away.

 “Wormtail. Give me your arm.”

 “Thank you m-master. Th-thank you.” He held out his unwounded hand.

 But Voldemort knocked it away. “Your other hand.” Wormtail whimpered as he unwound the stump from his robes. Voldemort put his spiderlike fingers, not to the wrist, but to the Dark Mark on his forearm. “Let us see who answers my call…and who is foolish enough to ignore it. Do stand, Wormtail. Make yourself presentable.”

 But Wormtail had lost as much or more blood than Riddle had, so when Riddle ran at him, knocking him against the cauldron, he couldn’t resist. Tom stole his robes and vanished into the treeline before Harry could break the paralysis spell.

 Voldemort stood straighter, stepping away from the cauldron to stand some ways before the sarcophagus, between the yew tree and the statue. He made an impressive figure, his white skin glinting softly, his robes arranged as stately as any king.

* * *

o0o0o0o0o

 The air seemed to buzz in Harry’s ears, and one by one, yet all at once, the air was filled with the noise of robes materializing. Wizards were Apparating to the graveyard. Voldemort looked on impassively, still as a statue as they hesitantly moved forward. Wormtail grovelled on the ground, shuffling on hand and knees in his muggle clothes toward his Lord.

 

“My, my…but aren’t you all in quite a state.” Voldemort was darkly amused. “So many of you resisted capture. And yet…not one of you sought to find me.” His words hung heavy as a challenge.

 “My Lord! We would have come. We had lost everything—”

 “I know how much you ‘lost.’ Spare me your tales. I know who my true servants are. In the end, it was my servant at Hogwarts, and the cowardly wretch before you who helped me set this plan into action. The snivelling coward that he is, but he still deserves a gift in gratitude. Wormtail? Your hand, if you would.” Voldemort lifted his wand, and a plume of silver vapour shot out from it, twisting into a shape not dissimilar to the rat-like hand from before. It was beautiful, terrible magic, bringing darkness and hard metal into a cruel shape. “Do not hesitate again.”

 Harry saw double. He saw the Death Eaters from his vantage point by the sarcophagus, and he saw them from farther away, through mist and moonlight. He felt giddy and disaffected all at once. He was of two minds.

 Meanwhile, the Death Eaters were speaking fast, furiously trying to keep Voldemort’s anger from them. Voldemort stood as he was, so close to Harry, and as unmoved as the night. His red eyes glittered. At last, he raised his wand carelessly, and two figures screamed with the Cruciatus curse. “It is no matter. You stand beside me now…do not fail me again.

 “Bring me the boy. His role is not yet finished.”

 A Death Eater approached, and as though it had never been there to begin with, he felt the Body Binding Jinx lift as he was hauled to his feet to stand in the centre of the circle.

 “I had meant to give you my ring and the curse it bears, to send it back with you after we duel. But it seems I’ll have to amend my plans. Lackwit, come here.” Voldemort gestured to someone out of Harry’s sight. “I need the boy another time; tonight is not auspicious. See to it that he remembers nothing.”

 Two Death Eaters stepped aside to let the light-haired man approach, but he didn’t move, so each of them took an arm and hauled him before Harry. The man’s teeth were chattering. He did not look at Harry; only at the ground. For the first time, Harry noticed that there was blood on his clothes, and he wondered at the significance. This man had been stabbed in the chest; Tom’s throat had been slit, and Harry’s wrists had been cut.

 The Dark Lord chuckled. “Oh, look at the pair of them. One who can barely stand for fear, and one who strains against his guard, gnawing away at his gag. Do let the boy speak.”

 Two hands groped at his face, roughly untying the knots Wormtail had done. Harry realized that the corners of his mouth were bleeding—seconds now—a clean breath of air—“ _Accio wand!”_

The Dark Lord laughed out right to see Wormtail jump and claw at the pocket where Harry now knew his wand was. “I do not think you can do wandless magic, boy. You are half trained at best.”

 “You’re a monster!” Harry screamed. “You think I’m half trained? That’s more than enough to beat you.”

 Voldemort’s eyes glittered. His white skin shone in the night, but he said nothing.

 The man in the Death Eater’s grips jerked. He shook his head wildly as though to throw his thoughts out, and he made panicking sounds. He was in pain, Harry saw. The Death Eaters pulled him up straight.

 “Give him his wand.” Voldemort said.

 “Don’t do it!” Harry yelled, trying to meet the man’s gaze, but he was having some kind of fit. The man couldn’t see him at all, and Harry could barely make him out. Slowly, Harry watched him raise the wand. “You don’t have to do it.”

  _“Obliviate.”_ Barely more than a whisper, but enough to make Harry’s head spin, and the memories began to sift away like so much smoke. Dimly, he noted the circle of…Death Eaters? Laughing all around him. And then, what could only be the Dark Lord taking two steps closer.

 The strange, snake-like man stood very near him. All others had stepped back, leaving them alone in the circle except for—was that Wormtail? The Dark Lord smiled eerily down at him, touching his cheek, his eyes, while Harry jerked away from him. Some magic lay between them, trickling down his throat like fire.

 Harry felt a niggling sensation in his stomach. He had to _go_ somewhere. Soon. A long corridor with door after door, row after row of glowing…what was it? Where is it? Harry supressed the feeling. His head felt like it would split—right at the scar. He was dizzy, bewildered and confused.

 Voldemort watched him and smiled. “Your mother cannot protect you now.” He said, very quietly. He continued to smile. To Wormtail, he said, “Give him his wand.”

 “Dumbledore will defeat you!” Harry cried out. “You’ll be defeated again, just like last time.” He felt dizzy though, hardly able to stand. His mouth was sticky with blood—blood? And his hands were numb. His whole body hurt. The thoughts began to overflow, and he shook with anger and the raw sensation of it all. He snatched the wand out of the air when it soared toward him, and did not wait for Voldemort to begin.

 But the Dark Lord was just as fast—maybe faster. He countered the jinx without a word. “Now, now, Potter. Mind your manners. This is a duel, not a brawl in the hallways. Bow. Bow before Death.”

 “Never!” And then Harry felt it. The whisper of smoke and a heavy, cloying scent gagging him. It was at once a touch on his shoulder, forcing his knees to buckle, and a cloud of confusion, of a false peace in his mind. _Spiders walking between his eyes, ice tingling on his hands._ It was the Imperius Curse—he fought at it. A little voice whispered at him, telling him how easy it would be to bow. How good it would be to please—“NO!”

 Voldemort tsked. “ _Crucio_.” He was calm as he said it.

 There was a moment where Harry heard the word and felt the dread. And then everything was brushed from his mind—all he could think was how much _everything_ hurt; worse than breaking his arm, worse than being bit by the Basilisk, so much so that he forgot about his injured leg from the maze. Everything was washed away in pain. When it stopped, Harry could only sway where he stood. Every inch of his body tensed in protest.

 “A little taste.” Voldemort said casually. “Bow. I insist.”

 “No.” Harry said quietly.

 Voldemort had only one reply.

 There was that whisper again—coaxing, soft, insistent. It would be easier than being cursed again. It was the smart thing to do; to save his strength for the coming duel. It was safe. “I’ll _never_ bow to you, Tom Riddle.” He shook his head violently. Then, pain. This time, like buzzing in his bones. _The spiders had gotten out,_ he realized, and were running up and down his arms and legs.

 Every nerve was afire. His skin pricked, his head ached. And then it stopped, and Harry felt a great pressure, like an invisible hand pushing him down. He felt his back begin to bend, and he grit his teeth. Agonizingly slow, he bent. If he didn’t, his back would break.

 This time, Voldemort didn’t speak aloud. Whatever spell he hurled at Harry, it was like being hit with knives.

 “ _Protego!_ ” he ducked as he said it, and knew even as he did that he’d have to fight back. Defence spells wouldn’t get him out of here. He turned his mind through the events as he understood it—a false sense of _nothing_ came first, but if he pushed, he could see the Triwizard Cup before him in the maze. _Right._ He thought. He just needed Voldemort to _stand still_ for long enough for Harry to get out of the circle of Death Eaters, and he’d be free.

 “A fine charm.” Voldemort said coaxingly, “but you’ll have to do better than that.” Another curse blasted towards Harry.

 Harry whirled about, rolling aside as another volley of magic tore at the earth. Reflexes born from Quidditch practice saved him, and he rolled behind a grave stone. He crouched there, feeling his hurts. His arms seared in protest, and he nearly dropped his wand as an old cut opened up again— _old_?Harry wondered. He didn’t remember it at all.

 “This boy,” Voldemort called to his Death Eaters, “is the one they call my downfall. They call him the Boy Who Lived…but he can barely even manage that. I am disappointed. Are you hiding from me? A little game of hide and seek? Perhaps you are ready for this all to end.”

 Anger welled up inside him, reckless and proud. He wouldn’t die kneeling before Voldemort, not hiding behind a grave marker. He would die on his feet like his mother and father. He would die trying to defend himself.

 Harry stood, and held his arm out, bracing himself against the cold stone. “ _Expelliarmus!_ ” Harry shouted.

 Just as Voldemort looked at him coolly. “ _Avada Kedavra_!”

 Their magic met. It was entirely unexpected, happening in a way that Harry couldn’t understand. An arch of green and red, spilling out in spirals like nothing he’d ever seen before. His wand vibrated something fierce, and Harry was afraid he’d drop it, break the strange connection which kept Voldemort from casting any more spells. Maybe even kept the curse from reaching him.

 All around them, the Death Eaters capered about like angry ghosts. Their shouts and worried voices were less real than the magic before them, and so they faded past Harry’s recognition.

 “Stand down, fools.” Voldemort roared. It was the first Harry heard his voice raise. “Stay back. He does not control this magic.”

 Somewhere farther back, Harry dimly heard the sounds of tinkling laughter on the wind, carried to him by some strange breeze. He fought the urge to look around—Voldemort was right; he could only barely hang on to the spell as it whirled around them both. He couldn’t risk looking away.

 From the two jets of light, silvery mist began to form. Webs of it unfurled like starlight, shooting off in pearly dabs. A great net was forming between them, creating a shield unlike any Harry had seen. Voldemort watched it too, his face an expressionless mask.

 And then the ghosts began to come out. Harry knew it, then. He was lost between the world of living and dead, playing out his death over and over again—that’s what he couldn’t remember. _He’d forgotten how he died._

 Harry could see the other ghosts of Voldemort’s victims, Cedric Diggory, the woman from the newspapers, the man from his dreams, and then, Harry saw with his heart in his throat, Lilly and James Potter. More would come. Many more. Harry’s eyes were drawn to his parents, and then to Cedric. Cedric. Was he dead?

 The other champion was saying something, a whisper Harry couldn’t quite hear over the rush of magic. Slowly, Cedric raised his hand, pointing. To the Triwizard Cup, abandoned by Cedric’s body.

 Lily’s face was pale and drawn in the eerie light. She too was saying something, gesturing urgently as the other ghosts looked on at Voldemort. She looked so much younger than Harry had imagined; even in the mirror of Erised, he’d seen her at his Aunt’s age, but she was younger than any adults he knew. Younger than the youngest professor at Hogwarts. With sad, determined eyes, she took her husband’s hand and mouthed, _‘Let go.’_ And, ‘ _We love you._ ’

 Tears streaming down his face, Harry nodded. He took a breath, and let go. He ran before Voldemort could gather his thoughts, before the Death Eaters could catch him, fearful as they were. Fast and light on his feet, the Gryffindor Seeker threw himself at Cedric and the Cup.

 He could always die when he got there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments help keep the author motivated! Feel free to say something, or leave kudos. ♥


	2. Summer's Passing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of Harry's summer vacation does not go well. Dementors at Privet Drive? 
> 
> Residents of Grimauld Place and the Order of the Phoenix have their first contact with Harry after he's been in seclusion after the ordeal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Harry is a little unstable. Also this will be **slash!** TMR/HP (or HP/TMR, whichever…) This means homosexual romance, but rest assured (or be forewarned) there will be **no** smut/lemons/pr0n. I don’t write explicit bedroom scenes. But there will be snogging. ~~but slow build-up.~~
> 
> Warning/Note: This is something of a **mystery. Why** Tom turns up is part of the mystery and **why** Harry is troubled is related. So...This story has a plot, with rising and falling in action and intrigue. Don't forget: this is supposed to be…fun.... Really. Have fun. Enjoy the eventual kissing. 
> 
> **Inspired by** _The Drowning Girl._ , which also features a neurodivergent (not-sane) main character. Also inspired by some crazy!Harry fanfic. 
> 
> There will only be a few long A/Ns (I hope.)
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Summer vacation (early August).**

**Chapter 2:** _Summer's Passing_

Following the night in the graveyard, Harry Potter thought he was dead for nearly twenty-four hours without anyone noticing. 

_“My God, Diggory! Dumbledore, He’s dead.”_

_“He’s dead! He’s dead! Cedric Diggory! Dead!”_ They’d said. Somehow, the name didn’t seem to matter. Harry knew, deep down, that they were talking about _him_. He’d seen his parents, he’d dueled with Voldemort, and his fingers were stiff with death in them. Rigor mortis, he’d thought. 

Dumbledore seemed to see him in spite of his being quite gone, and then Moody, who turned out not to be Moody, ushered him from that place in the castle. Harry nearly died there, in the False-Moody’s office. He hadn’t expected that. He should have. Something told him he should have died. Then Dumbledore and McGonagal were there, urging Harry’s body to the Hospital Wing, to lie beside Cedric’s. Or had he only imagined that?

 _“I will be closer than all of them, closer than a son.”_

The ending speech, the questions from Ron and Hermione—he couldn’t remember hardly anything after that day. He finally realized he _wasn’t_ dead, but he still didn’t feel like talking. It felt wrong. Voldemort was back, and the imposter had gotten the Kiss, and Harry was sent away again to the Dursley’s. 

The summer passed in ways very different than before. “ _He’s just sitting there, Vernon! Don’t know what’s going on in that head…his eyes…his eyes aren’t sane._ “ Petunia said once. 

Uncle Vernon had harrumphed and bolstered her confidences, shoving a tool in Harry’s hands and leading him toward the garden door. “ _Don’t come in until that hedge is good and trimmed._ “ That helped, actually. When he worked in the garden, he felt the most normal. But anything could set him off, a car in the neighborhood passing by sounded like the _pop_ of Apparating sometimes. The roar of crowds on the neighbor’s television reminded him of the Tasks. 

But some days were better than others. And it was on one of these good days, when Harry felt most like himself, that he went to the park. Harry sat on the swing-set, watching the sun set with growing apprehension. The summer had not been going as he planned, and even the hot, sweltering days couldn’t burn away the memory of Cedric’s cold body on his hands, or crouching behind tombstones. So he got up, deciding to finally head home after a long day of newspaper-snatching and eavesdropping-on-the-news-broadcasts. 

“Where are you?” Harry muttered.

No owl came down bearing messages, and no wizard appeared to answer the question. His feet echoed dully on the pavement. Just one more street, and he’d be home.

He heard footsteps from behind, then a hasty trot to catch up with him—large, heavy, but not entirely precise. 

Harry tensed, his fingers closing around his wand. But he didn’t draw it, not yet.

“There you are.” A low voice huffed. 

Harry eased out of his stance, even allowed for a smile. “Hey Dudley.” He called. Trying to relax, Harry imagined turning Dudley into a pig. Hagrid, he mused, would approve.

“Mum’s going to kill you, being out this late.” Dudley crowed. “You’ll be roast meat.”

That, Harry thought vaguely, was oddly considerate of Dudley. “You’re just as late.” He scowled. “Where were you?” he demanded. “Beating up on some kid?”

Dudley’s face folded in on itself, the cheerful contemplation of Harry’s fate interrupted. He took a moment to compose a reply. “No! No, of course I didn’t. Don’t...” He sputtered.

Harry smiled thinly, enjoying the look on Dudley’s face. However, the feeling was short lived.

“I’ve been with _friends._ Not that you’d know. You haven’t got any.” Dudley rallied solidly. His grin was back. “Except for your boyfriend. Who was it again?” his face puckered. “No, no! Cedric!” he laughed. “Always crying into your pillow at night. Thought I couldn’t hear you?”

Harry’s face flushed. He was left without a reply, his hands wrapped around a wand that he was forbidden to use. He sighed and noisily turned away from Dudley. As he walked, he noticed a sudden darkening of the sky. Twilight seemed rushed, hurried along with the rushing of wind, and there was a dank, eerie feel that came over them all of a sudden. It was as though a blanket of depression settled around their shoulders, and both of them forgot their words.

 _No._ he thought desperately. _Not here. Not now._ Harry stepped back hastily, his hand already making the right movements as he fought the fog and attempted to catch a clear memory. A happy memory.

“What are you doing?” Dudley demanded. “You’re doing something funny!”

Harry ignored his cousin, focusing on the spell just behind his lips. There. He had it. _Hermione and Ron on the train to Hogwarts with him, their heads pressed close in discussion. His friends._ Harry opened his mouth. “ _Expecto_ \--”

 _wham._ Dudley’s fist caught him by surprise, pushing the air out of his lungs and destroying the spell. Harry stared, dazed, at the light that sputtered out of his wand as his only weapon cascaded through the air. He watched as it disappeared in the oncoming darkness, and the Dementors edged closer on his vision.

The Patronus glimmered into nothingness there on the ground. “No-- my wand!” Harry leapt after it, not noticing that the Dementors were clustering right in his path.

They were on him before he could stretch out his hands. _Just a little closer..._ Harry felt cold and unhappy. He vaguely wondered if Dementors were secretly the reason behind his not-depression this summer. Then, for the second time in his life, he felt the Dementor’s strong grip, slimy and eerily tight. Everything seemed to flicker, to be shrouded in a thick mist.

Harry let out a short scream of frustration, arching away from the looming creature. He would _not_ let it end this way. He would _not--_

A familiar voice offered something to latch onto. “Ah man, not now! Why do you have to have a mental breakdown-- more mental breakdown now where anyone could see you?” Dudley hissed. He blustered into the mist, ignorant to the danger.

Harry gaped as his cousin wavered for a moment, clearly caught in the Dementors’s thrall. Harry had just enough clear thought to whisper a second spell. “Lumos!” He rolled towards his wand. 

_Happy thoughts. Happy, happy thoughts. Not in the graveyard?_ No, that wasn’t right... _Dudley is about to become a real soulless bully?_ Harry thrust that thought aside. _Not helping. Every flavour beans...learning to fly...catching the snitch..._ Even as Harry tried to focus, to choose even a single semi-happy memory, a thought fought its way to the forefront of his mind. Harry actually grinned.

 _He was back at Hogwarts, accepted and believed, sitting with friends at the hearth side. Pumpkin juice, Butterbeer, warm beds...._ He waved his hand without the wand yet in his grasp, and shouted, “ _Expecto Patronum_!” and again, there were silvery sparks.

The Dementor paused, turning its head toward Harry in eerie semblance of curiosity.

Harry half-crawled, grabbing his fallen wand and performing the spell fluidly. Again, he called the memories back, settling on a more recent one this time:

 _“This is just the thing for you, freak. Here!” Dudley shoved something soft into Harry’s arms. “Now you can cry yourself to sleep like a little girl! Since you’ve been having_ such a hard _summer.” Here Dudley regressed into making mocking baby noises which Harry tuned out._

_Harry took the plush toy, looking at it. It was a teddy bear, unusually new looking, soft and clean. Harry’s eyes flashed, amused that Dudley would think this gift would anger him. Harry held it up to the light, his face expressionless._

_Finally his eyes crinkled as he smiled and said in a light, slightly girlish tone, “Why thank you Dudley! I didn’t know you cared. You see, teddy bears are very useful, in addition to being cute. True, they’re well known even in the Muggle world, but they can be used for other things. Like flying,” Harry made the bear ‘fly’ with a broad sweep of his arm. “And they’re great for target practice....what better friend could I ask for?”_

_The horror and disbelief on Dudley’s face sent Harry into fits of laughter._ Even surrounded by Dementors, his stomach felt funny-- full of air and unspent laughter. Or indigestion.

“ _Expecto patronum._ “ He laughed, only somewhat desperate, but the Dementor’s breath was still so close. Just as its terrible mouth brushed his cheek, the magic sprang to life. He almost doubted it would work, but the Patronus glowed bright, sending the Dementors away. 

There was a _woosh_ of air as the Patronus bowled the black-cloaked thing over before it cantered back to Harry, tossing its head. Harry’s eyes were glued to it.

There had been a second Dementor, Harry realized, dazed, and his Patronus charged at it as well, driving it away and taking the darkness with it. 

Only Dudley was left. Harry squinted before righting his glasses. The euphoria of the charm _working_ had passed, leaving him nauseated. He still couldn’t quite decide what was happening. Harry wavered. Just as he was about to sit down (he was fairly certain he had knocked his head. Only without the actual hitting of anything that usually entailed) when a meaty hand clasped his shoulder, then moved under his arm, pulling his weight onto it. 

Harry eyed the arm speculatively. It wasn’t a Dementor.

It felt surreal, being half-heartedly dragged up by Dudley. Theoretically, they should be equally affected by the Dementors...if the mist and the haze hadn’t been so very like the graveyard... 

Except, Harry thought the Dementor had gotten significantly closer to kissing him than it had Dudley, which ought to horrify him. He was hyper-conscious of his surroundings, feeling his shoulders tense as some terrible beast with squeeking wheels neared them. His wand was up again, his eyes narrowed as he anticipated an other-worldly attack. The figure stepped into the faint glow of a street lamp. 

It was Mrs.Figg.

She toted a plastic bag of cat food, and her eyes were round with fright. “Dudley? Dudley Dursley?” she called, a tremor of uncertainty in her voice. “Have you got....goodness, is that Harry?”

Harry stood there numbly, trying to figure out if she was another apparition.

“Put it away, you freak! She’ll see!” Dudley hissed, his large hand squeezing overly hard on Harry’s shoulder.

Mrs. Figg positively shook. “No, you stupid boy, don’t put it away! What if more come around? I can’t do anything about those horrible things,” she looked around.

Harry looked from Dudley’s open mouth to Mrs. Figg’s swaying grocery bag. “Mrs. Figg? You could _see_ them? The Dementors?”

Mrs. Figg sniffed dramatically. “Use those legs, boy! Oh, where did that Mundungus Fletcher get off to at a time like this? He’s meant to be the one watching over you...”

Hesitantly, both teenagers began walking down the road. The cat-lady could see Dementors. Someone was meant to be watching him. Harry felt light-headed and confused all over again. “Never said anything...all those cats and not a word...watching over me?” Harry mumbled.

Harried on by their neighbor, Dudley half dragged Harry home. “You’ll get it now, calling those things, showing our neighbor. Would you _move?_ “ Dudley said, his voice oddly choked. “What’s wrong with you?”

Harry hmmed, his eyes darting to the sky and back to Mrs. Figg. They were back to number four faster than he would have imagined, really. _Was Dudley flying?_ The thought was absurd...Dudley couldn’t fly...too heavy...Hagrid couldn’t fly... _I wonder if I put a feather light spell on him...or he on me..._

“You don’t see a snake, do you?” Harry asked the probably-not-a-Dementor (probably just his large cousin, who moved faster than he thought).

For a moment, the expression on Dudley’s face changed. Worried. Helpless fear and maybe…concern? It made him hesitate. He took a moment, just staring at Harry, his watery blue eyes sad.

Then he opened his mouth. “Mum! Dad! Harry’s gone even more bonkers! And he did you-know-what!” Dudley gave Harry a scathing expression, and pushed away from the smaller boy. 

This was more like it. No helping hands dragging him into safety...just a big brute trying to get him in trouble...Harry started to relax. “You’re right. The snake wouldn’t be here...there’d be more Death Eaters if the snake were here...do you think the Death Eaters brought the Dementors?”

“He’s crazy!” Dudley hollered now that he was indoors. He shoved Harry against the wall, shirking his duty as walking-crutch.

There was a loud thunking noise from above.

Mrs. Dursley came scrambling out of the kitchen, her long neck out of sorts with her shaking shoulders. “You get away from my Dudley! Oh, Dudley, you’re as white as a ghost!” Petunia gave a gasp. “Did you fall down? Did that wretched boy push you?” She was within Dudley-grabbing distance, and did so. Her hands were checking his skin, and his pulse, and who knew what else.

The loud thunking had resolved itself into footsteps, and the Beast of the family reared its ugly head. “You! What’s this about you-know-what? This is it! This is the _last_ straw! You did _it_ to my boy, didn’t you, you freak? Let’s hear it! Dudley, what did he do to you?” Vernon blustered.

Harry sank to the floor, dazed and exhausted. Dudley, having escaped his mother’s grasp, now sat in a chair. He was unresponsive to being fussed over by his mother while Vernon stared at his nephew. 

Harry wondered if he ought to sneak away. There was something...cats...no, owls. Yes, owls. _An owl will be coming to break my wand because...magic..._ Fear made Harry stumble to his feet. He looked to the windows, his eyes darting frantically.

“Explain!” Vernon demanded even as he followed Harry’s gaze and grinned. Recognition lit his face. “You’re not allowed to do… _magic_ …out of school. I know you’re not! Oh, now you’ve done it, you stupid boy. You’ll be expelled! Yes!” He pumped a fist. His eyes were so wide that Harry could see whites all around his irises. He half expected to see excited spittle clinging to his uncle’s mustache. This distracted him for a moment, making him miss the Ministry’s owl as it swept in.

Harry’s jaw set. He recognized the not-quite-red letter (red, the color of fire, red, r-e-d, 3 letters, carried by an owl, o-w-l, also 3 letters...) and snatched it before it could burst into flames.

Instead it began its recitation. “To Mr. Harry James Potter,” the letter said reasonably, (and Harry thought, _no, that’s too many letters..._ ) This is Mafalda Hopkirk, the Commander-in-Chief of the Improper Use of Magic Office, writing to inform you of a serious break in section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlocks’ Statute of Secrecy. On this night of 2 August, 1995, the Patronus Charm was cast in the Alleyway between Privet Drive and the Sunnyside Park at approximately 7:03 pm.” 

_There,_ Harry thought. _There’s my three._

“We regret to inform you, that as this is the third offense recorded for Harry Potter, you are hereby expelled from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A Ministry official will be by your residence shortly to confiscate and destroy your wand. Any further magic or attempt to evade Ministry laws shall be punishable by law. Sincerely yours, Mafalda Hopkirk.”

Vernon’s eyes squinted into tiny crescents as his grin stretched into something manic. He actually held his breath, listening to the letter which was expelling his hated-nephew.

As the letter wound to a close, he let out his breath in an exuberant shout of, “Justice!” and gave a chortle.

“Justice?” Petunia repeated dully. “How is this justice? Now what do we do with him?” She shook her head, too frazzled to notice Vernon’s dark look.

Aunt Petunia’s words sunk in the way the letter (being only a piece of paper that spoke. _Not,_ he thought, _a howler._ ) had not. He wouldn’t be going back to Hogwarts. He wouldn’t join his friends on the train.

Then Vernon’s expression was changing as he took in the moaning sight of his son. Dudley sat huddled in the chair, mumbling about depression and madness catching. “Dudley!” Vernon cried, just as another owl flew into the living room. 

Petunia gave a screech, and Dudley an oddly high pitched yelp. Harry looked at the owl, uncertain if it wasn’t the owl after all, who had made the noise.

Harry glanced expectantly at the letter before he took it. Inside, was a hastily scrawled note. “Harry, don’t do anything. Mundungus told me what you and Mrs. Figg saw. Do not leave the house. Do not give up your wand. I will send for you soon. Dumbledore.”

Harry turned it over in his hands, examining the parchment. This letter, unfortunately, did not read itself, so Harry was left imagining Dumbledore’s tone. Would it be harried and lecturing? Or worried and grave? No, surely it must be warding and terrible. That would be interesting...

Belatedly, he recognized the foot that toed him, and then felt another meaty hand (this one more aged than Dudley’s had been, but less callused, as though he’d lead a softer life) grab his shoulder. “You!” Vernon roared. The following words washed over him, all sounding the same (angry, fearful, loud).

Harry looked up at the owl, which had nothing better to do than look at him reproachfully. He imagined catching it, using it as a shield to the Ministry and their Laws and Regulations, and finding a secret flight-path back to Hogwarts.

Harry looked up into a very purple face. He seemed to have missed a rather exemplary lecture. Then he spoke over Vernon’s self-righteous tones. “I’m to stay here.” Harry said firmly. “I might be expelled,” he lifted his chin, “but I’m not beaten!” There. That sounded properly defiant.

His words were undermined, though, by Vernon shoving him in the direction of the stairs, marching him away from the living room.

“We’ll lock him up, we will.” Vernon announced. “To your room. Now!” He toed Harry with one foot again and looked to his family.

Dudley moaned loudly, reliving the chain of events that had brought the letter to his mother. “First he got his _thing_ out, and then he started doing magic.” 

_Where is that sadness from before?_ Harry thought. Vernon had finally got him moving toward the second bedroom.

“It felt like there was no happiness in the world...but I punched him, and he started having a fit! And he did more magic...it was horrible.”

“He’s horrible.” Petunia agreed, her voice flat.

Dudley’s voice, high and winging, flew up the stairs behind Harry. “Why does he have to stay with us?”

Halfway dragged up the stairs, Harry considered making a teddy bear charm to cheer Dudley… (No more Dementors…happy thoughts…) but his wand would be broken. Except Dumbledore was spying…no, trialing…was that a word? 

Forced into his room, Harry wobbled uncertainly on one foot, arms splayed as though preparing for a crash landing. Slowly, he lowered his limbs. 

Hedwig hooted softly at him from her corner.

“Well. That didn’t go well,” Harry told the owl.

* * *

* * *

o0o0o0o0o  
Harry was still waiting several days later, but no other owls had come. Then, unexpectedly, it all started happening at once.

Someone was downstairs. Several someones. 

The Dursleys had left unexpectedly, all of them taking the car out shortly before dinner, but then there were noises. Suspicious ones. Harry listened near the second bedroom’s (he still didn’t think of it as ‘his’) door, trying to make out individual sounds. He thought he heard traces of someone talking... 

He shook his head. But why? He didn’t hear voices. Harry was sure of that, and there was no reason for Death Eaters to chit-chat as they came to abduct him from his home. No owl had informed him of Dumbledore’s presence either.

Something clattered to the floor-- followed by a woman’s voice. Apologizing?

Finally, the door burst open. Remus Lupin and Mad Eye Moody stood there, flanked by several others he didn’t recognize.

“Pack your things, Potter. And where’s your wand? We could have attacked and killed you seven times over by now!”

Harry leaned sideways, counting the figures. “But there’s only six of you,” he felt obliged to point out. Then Harry looked closer at Moody, one thought jarring in his memory. “You were poly-juiced all last year.” He looked over the rest of the people and took one step back, hiding his wand with his arm. It poked into his elbow. “How do I know you’re not all doppelgangers?”

Lupin smiled faintly, his eyes as tired as ever. “Dumbledore sent us.” He said simply, as though that was enough.

“Dumbledore?” Harry shook his head. “No letters. No word. I think he would have told me you were coming...” Harry raised an eyebrow, and decided to do a test. He pointed his wand discretely at Lupin’s shoe, changing the color of one of the socks with a muttered spell.

Instead of cursing or dodging the spell, though, Lupin merely watched, bemused as his socks changed into a lovely shade of canary. Harry cocked his head, considering. Moody’s socks, he avoided looking at entirely. Who knew what the _real_ Moody was like...or if he was real. The others, he changed their socks dove grey.

“Your boggart was a Dementor. I taught you the Patronus charm.” Lupin told Harry with a series of interesting expressions. “You saw me the night Sirius Black got away.”

“I didn’t know birds knew that...” Harry frowned. “Did Professor Lupin tell you? Are you his bird?” His question only brought about more uneasy staring. The smiles that had fluttered to a few faces fell away.

One of the figures coughed, while Moody laughed, showing yellowed teeth. “That’s right. Constant vigilance!” He snorted. “Potter, that there is Kingsley Shackelbolt. Nymphadora Tonks, Emmeline Vance and Dedalus Diggle.”

“Harry, have you packed?” Lupin asked, concern coloring his voice.

Behind him, the young woman with pink hair raised her eyebrows. “Not birds, Harry,” she said, and he immediately liked her for not calling him _Potter._ “We’re your vanguard. We’ll fly by broom, though. Oh! And, um, we’re Aurors.”

Harry silently regarded her.

Fidgeting awkwardly then, she added, “Do you mind if I call you Harry?”

“Please.” Harry replied, and wondered what he was supposed to pack. If he was supposed to pack. “By broom. Not flu? Floo...flew?”

“This isn’t going to work, Moody. He’s addled.” One of the others said.

“You expect him to stay a-flight and avoid detection like that?” It sounded like another argument, so Harry stopped listening and started moving.

They packed his trunk for him, bundled him up in appropriate flying clothes, and sat him on his broom. Bemused, Harry watched as they took their places above, below, and to his sides, while Moody circled around, while the last one flew behind them. Supposedly. 

Harry wondered what the Dursleys would make of him being gone when they got back...

Needless to say, he stayed on the broom. Staying aloft was easy, even if the birds had doubted it. Harry decided to show the birds how to fly on broomstick. He certainly knew it better than they did-- half of them were stiff on their seats, and the other half entirely too aware of the stuff around them and not the air, the wind, or the atmosphere. Harry would have thought them naturals, being birds, but instead, he showed them how to lean into the headwind, to bend here or there and minimize the pressure. He was a natural flyer, after all.

The hours passed. The vanguard birds talked, and Harry flew.

After some time, they landed in the middle of a sidewalk. They clustered close around him even then, flexing stiff fingers and rolling their shoulders. Moody looked around as though he expected an assault.

“This location is secured by the Fidelius Charm. The Secret Keeper will reveal it to you soon, I’m sure.” Lupin told Harry.

Harry frowned, looking at the houses numbered 11 and 13. “Is it number 12, then?”

A hushed, and somehow disapproving air took over the crowd. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to have guessed their surprise.

Instead of answering, Lupin put one hand on Harry’s shoulder, and spoke quietly to the others. “We should go in.”

Moody nodded, handing a slip of paper with emerald green ink in a familiar hand-- Dumbledore’s writing. Harry wondered why he hadn’t been shown earlier, but then supposed that birds were trained not to release their mail until a very specific time, so he let it go. He walked inside, the address running amuck in his head.

“Take care, Harry.” Tonks called after him.

* * *

o0o0o0o

Newly settled in Grimmauld Place, Harry Potter considered his two friends. They had approached him earlier, of course, but Harry had ignored them. Mostly. Every once in a while he would shoot a suspicious glare at them.

“Harry,” Ron began again, annoyance creeping into his concerned expression, “we wanted to tell you.”

Hermione nodded, her hair falling into her eyes. “But we _couldn’t,_ not with the way things are. Dumbledore told us we couldn’t write to you...Harry, we were all doing what was best to keep you safe.”

That was really too much.

“ _‘In summer, when the days are long, Perhaps you’ll understand the song: In autumn, when the leaves are brown, Take pen and ink, and write it down.’_ “ Harry quoted. He thought it was a rather intelligent response, all things considered. 

He could have screamed instead, but he hadn’t.

“Whose poem is that?” Hermione asked carefully, shrewdly. 

Harry frowned at the pair of them and continued. “ _‘He thought he saw an Elephant That practised on a fife: He looked again, and found it was A letter from his wife. ’At length I realize,’ he said, ‘The bitterness of Life!’_ “ But he scratched the name of the poem on a napkin, (Humpty Dumpty’s Recitation) and (The Mad Gardener’s Song)　by Lewis Carroll.

“Wait, what?” Ron’s expression was a study of confusion.

Harry sighed. Some things had to be repeated. “You’re my friends, not his. You could have told me news...what you were doing...the state of the owls in this house...”

Ron looked at Hermione, distracted. “First he doesn’t say anything for hours--”

“Twenty minutes.” Hermione corrected.

“And then he goes quoting poetry?” Ron’s face was beet red. He probably didn’t recognize the poem. “Listen, we tried to send word. We tried. But they were checking everything, and everyone said you were fine, and that you _had_ to stay there for a while.” The words tumbled out in a rush. It was amazing they didn’t get caught on his teeth.

“So what is the news, then? Will you tell me now?” Harry snapped. The words were awkward, hot and laced with anger he only half felt. “Weeks! Of listening in on Muggle news, scanning headlines and hearing nothing. There’s nothing! I tell everyone about the graveyard and Voldemort returning, and it’s not. there. Why?”

“Harry, mate...no one believes that he’s back. _We_ do!” Ron held out his hands defensively. “Of course we believe you. But no one else...there was no proof, you see...”

Hermione’s breath hitched. “You said you _scanned_ the papers, Harry? You didn’t read them?”

Harry rubbed the place Wormtail had cut him. His arm was traitorously numb. “Couldn’t get through it...the words just jumbled...I looked for You-Know-Who...Voldemort or Death Eater, mostly...The words...” Harry shook his head. “But I gave proof! I saw him. I saw him after that dark ritual...isn’t that something? Dumbledore even backed me!” The anger was back, tearing its way through the confusion.

Ron stared at him. “Uh. But still, there’s nothing _else._ They stripped Dumbledore of his titles, too you know. He’s no better than you are.”

Hermione hit Ron in the arm, throwing a warning glance at him.

Harry lifted his eyebrows. “ _‘I saw an aged, aged man, a-sitting on a gate.　I thanked him for telling me the way he got his wealth, but chiefly for his wish that he might drink my noble health._ “ Harry muttered, adding _I’ll Tell Everything I can,_ to the list. Just like Hermione and Ron ought to have.

“There’s something else, Harry...” Ron continued. “What? It’s not like we can keep him from noticing on the train! Everyone will be talking...Anyway. Harry, they’ve been writing stuff about you. Mostly Skeeter...and not good stuff. They think you lost it that night.” Ron swallowed hard, but continued. “Or that you’re just...lying.”

Harry looked Ron in the eye. “Why would I lie about that? And what would I have lost? Besides some blood...and the other champion.” Harry sighed and sat down. His head hurt.

Then there was a loud noise as air was displaced and two brilliantly red-haired boys Apparated into the room.

Harry started. 

Hermione made a startled noise, and then a frustrated one.

“Hello Harry,” said George. “We thought we heard you....not talking.”

“And then all the sudden,” Fred continued. 

“your dulcet tones fill the house.” George finished.

“You don’t want to bottle up your anger like that, Harry, let it all out. There might be a couple of people fifty miles away who didn’t hear you.”(*1) Fred grinned down at him.

Harry nodded appreciatively, his headache forgotten. “Still listening at keyholes then?”

Fred cocked his head, the easy smile still in place. “No need for keyholes. Feeling a bit dense today, are we?”

Harry decided that not-responding was best. He crossed his arms and gave Fred and George a Look.

“Hey, is that your best defense in the hearing? Glare at us? Shouldn’t you practice looking defenseless and young instead?” One twin asked.

“Nah, he doesn’t need a defense. He needs a jailbreak. Not even Dumbledore can help him out of this one,” the other laughed.

“Stop it! This is serious! Don’t you know what he’s been through?” Hermione shook her bushy head, but the twins were out of reach.

George tsked at her. “Quietly, now! We don’t want the cranky old house elf or the former owner to start a racket! And believe me, I know what I’m doing. Harry wants to be treated normally, right? He needs a laugh.”

Fred helpfully nudged Harry, making an exaggeratedly happy face. “Nothing beats feeling cooped up like a good old joke.” He handed Harry a wand. Harry took it, and it turned into a rubber chicken. “Just ask Sirius!”

Harry levitated the chicken. “Hmm. Looks nice.” The craftsmanship was good. 

Fred and George beamed at him for a moment before they exchanged glances. Twins were always doing that.

“Have you ever had a hearing?” Harry asked them. “When is it, anyway? Before school starts, right?”

“Well, here’s what we know...” George slung an arm around Harry’s shoulders and pulled him up from the ground. Harry removed the arm and settled in to listen. “There’s an order meeting later, probably to discuss your hearing... We’re still working on getting in.”　

“But it never works,” Ron put in.

“Not yet! But we won’t give up, even if Kretcher poisons us all. Or the old lady Black hollers us deaf. Or Sirius drives Mum mad by going stir-crazy...” Fred shrugged.

“Or if all of the doxies in the house try and bury us in our sleep.” George added, not to be outdone. “How were the Dementors, by the way?”

“Tiring. They nearly got my cousin and I. Did you know Mrs. Figg can see them? And Mundungus Fletcher was watching me?”

“You don’t say, Harry? You don’t say.” The conversation picked up from there, with Ron and Hermione right behind him as the twins took up the yarn. 

Harry let himself be lead to the sofas, where he finally collapsed into it to listen to what they had to tell him. The hearing would come soon enough. For now, all he wanted to do was sit.

So he did, though the feeling of unease did not leave him.

_Something’s going to happen._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I don’t have a Harry Potter beta. (though I would like one)
> 
> (*1) JKR's line: OotP Ch.4 ♥ too funny not to use.
> 
> By the way, this is the unabridged version of this fic. If you compare the lengths of this fic and the version on ff.net, you will notice that this one is longer. If you'd like to read the shorter version, be my guest; I edited the ff.net version more to try and keep the story at a more typical publishing word count as writing/editing practice.


	3. The Hearing and the Hogwarts Express

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry enters the Ministry of Magic for his hearing. Shortly after, he boards the train for Hogwarts, only to miss getting off. Snape and the new Defense teacher come to fetch him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Talkative author seeks kind beta._   
>  **Notes on the words and the subject 'madness' at the end of this chapter:**

Chapter 3: The Hearing

Trial day, Harry found, was not nearly as exciting as Fred and George had made it out to be.

There were no screaming cockadoos to wake him up in the ‘wee hours of the morning’, nor were there special striped robes to be worn to the trial. Instead, he had his school uniform, a rather ordinary breakfast at an ordinarily early hour, and a promise that, ‘Everything will be ok.’

Harry almost liked the, “This is the last ordinary day you’ll get,” from Fred better, but thought it might hurt Mrs. Weasley’s feelings to hear it. Her twin sons were really better at talking to him, but who wanted to know that?

“Harry? Were you listening? We don’t have time for breakfast—take that toast and come with me now. We have to go _now._ “ Mr. Weasley called loudly.

The trip to the Ministry office was rather round about...maybe Mr. Weasley had lost his broom, or his owls who looked like Aurors, so Harry and he rode Muggle transportation.

“Ooh, the visitor’s entrance!” Mr. Weasley smiled. “Let’s see, yes, it was...right here.”

He entered the telephone booth, but instead of fishing around for change, he dialed a few numbers. 62442.

Harry rearranged them in his head, trying to see if there was a code......what would the 2 be...he mused. graar, maybe? “Oh.” he said, remembering the alphabet assigned to the numbers. “Magic.”

The phone booth, it seemed, harbored a secret wish to be a lift, and so Harry and Mr. Weasley found themselves descending. Harry looked curiously down the corridor filled with flickering lights, carved marble statues, and a highly polished dark floor. He gave the floor a good tap with his foot.

“Don’t talk more than necessary.” Mr. Weasley muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “Remember what everyone told you.”

Harry decided that musing more on the stories of prisoners trapped forever in an eternal prism (another of the twins’ stories) wasn’t a bad idea, so he moved along without replying.

Harry gaped at the sheer number of people. Witches and wizards strolled through the floos in flashes of light and smoke. People walked in every direction, and in the distance, he saw elevators full of people making their morning commutes. The sheer amount of people was staggering. _What does the Ministry do with all of them? Or are they all the Ministry?_

“Wand please.” an attendant said, cutting through Harry’s observations.

Harry handed it to him without comment. The twins had been right about one thing. They _did_ get ridiculous badges in return for wands. His read, “Disciplinary Hearing,” which he was supposed to pin on his robes.

“Arthur!”

“Perkins! What’s the rush?”

“Thank goodness I’ve found you!”

Harry stared, mesmerized by the bouncing, fluffy white hair of the wizard.

“We’ve got an urgent message! Harry’s hearing has been moved up, and the courtroom has changed. It started ten minutes ago, Arthur. I sent you an owl--”

“But they couldn’t have! I didn’t--”

“Hurry, Arthur. Take the lift as far down as it will go, but then you’ll need to take the stairs!” The older wizard gestured to the lifts.

“Come on, Harry.” Mr. Weasley called, breaking into a run. “We’ve got to make that lift...!” he waved at someone he seemed to know, reiterating, “Hold the lift!!” in a loud voice.

Harry sped up to catch Mr. Weasley. “We’re getting on _that?_ “ Harry asked, leery of it.

Instead of answering, Mr. Weasley stepped on and pulled Harry after him. “Thank you,” Mr. Weasley muttered, wheezing a bit.

The press of people in the lift was more than Harry wanted to consider, more than he’d counted on and faster than expected. He felt his discomfort in the way he remembered old tests; there was thought and emotional turmoil between the two (the test and he, his discomfort and him), but all he had left was the vague feeling that something was wrong.

Harry felt trapped. So many people, half of them staring at _him,_ and a good many more who were pressed so tightly he thought the lift wouldn’t be able to work. He shifted from one foot to the other, conscious of the “Disciplinary Hearing” on his robes clear for anyone to see, and hoping these people wouldn’t notice it, wouldn’t say anything about it, but knowing that (like owls), people tended to talk.

On the next floor, more wizards went out, but a great many stayed in. Harry wondered exactly how many branches of the Ministry there were. Harry wondered as they sped down, and he thought of counting them all. It would be much better than counting sheep. He’d be asleep in no time, and the (ridiculous, Mr. Weasley had said) hearing would be over.

As several Wizards and Witches exited, Harry just managed to ask, “Why was the meeting changed? Didn’t we arrive early?”

Mr. Weasley gave him a pitying look that made Harry’s stomach knot itself further. He shook his head and finally said, “There must have been a mistake with the scheduling...” he hesitated, then looked around to make certain no one was listening.

“Listen Harry, I can’t go in there with you. But Dumbledore will be there, and his witness. You didn’t do anything illegal. Remember that. You cast the spell in self-defense, and surely the Wizengamot will come to see that.” That last bit he said in a great rush, so fast that Harry was having difficult discerning the words’ individual meaning.

Harry pushed the doors open, turning his shoulder into the heavy wood and heaving it. There was probably a spell, he mused, but he didn’t know it.

The room was like being on the bottom of an Owl’s cage, Harry thought. The walls of the cage loomed up above him, and there were beady-eyes peering at him, and there was a lock on the door behind him. At the center of the floor, there was a hard-backed wooden chair with chains. _He_ never actually chained his Owl, though, so he thought it was rather unfair for them to attempt to do it to him. So he stopped walking before he got there, sending his gaze across the beady-eyes instead.

They were old witches and wizards, he noticed that straight away. There were drab, old-fashioned robes with strange cuts like those out of a museum exhibit, and then there was a familiar bowler hat. Next to the hat there was a small, squat woman with an unpleasant look about her. She was wearing a pink cardigan that really didn’t suit her complexion.

Harry stared. Eventually, the wizard started talking, giving a long account which Harry didn’t bother to listen to. He did notice Dumbledore (apparently he was late as well) walk in. A soft little cough provided by the lady-in-pink also distracted him from examining the courtroom he remembered from the pensive memory of Barty Crouch.

“And this is?”

“Arabella Figg.” Mrs. Figg replied, giving an awkward courtesy. She too had been late.

_What’s she doing here? She isn’t an Owl._

It seemed Dumbledore was confused on this matter as well, for Mrs. Figg had been called to the stand, and was there still. Harry studied her and her plush chair, and finally tuned in when she glanced at him. “One was rather large, and the other rather small.” Mrs. Figg said, her face a picture in honesty.

“The Dementors!” Fudge said, inexplicably. Nothing to do with owls at all.

“They were horrible...big and wearing cloaks...” She said uncertainly.

Harry nodded. However true this may have been though, Fudge interrupted, “This Squib has never seen a Dementor! This whole thing is a cover-up for a liar trying to show off in front of Muggles.”

Mrs. Figg took a slow breath. “There was all this mist...it was like all the happiness in the world were drained away. Like they were sucking the life out of everything.”

The courtroom erupted into chatter, each of the members trying to voice their opinions.

“This is staged! They fed the information to her.”

“I doubt that Squibs can see anything as magical as a Dementor...”

“She’s got that description perfectly,” One voice said, clearly troubled.

Harry stopped listening again, focusing instead on Fudge. Fudge was white with anger, his face practically a mask of cold accusation.　

“Clearly he’s trying to top his story from the tournament!” Fudge seethed. “This is an outright attack on my—the Ministry’s authority. Saying that Voldemort has returned was bad enough, Dumbledore, but getting this Squib to comply in your scheme? Making it out like the Ministry itself would order Dementors into a Muggle village? Ridiculous!”

Thinking to take advantage of all the noise, Harry turned to Mrs. Figg. “Why were you in the alley?” he asked, and for some reason, that was everyone else’s cue to stop talking.

Mrs. Figg stared at him. “What?”

“Why were you in the alley?” he repeated.

“Oh!” She smiled thinly. “I didn’t think it was safe for you to wander around by yourself, what with the...political climate.” She tucked her chin in like a professional and continued, “So I had Mr. Tibbens follow you.”

“Oh.” Harry said. “Thank you.” Instead of a Mundungus following him around, he’d had a cat. And everyone knew that cats were nicer than people.

Apparently it wasn’t enough of an explanation, though, for Dumbledore felt the need to elaborate. “Mr. Tibbens is a cat, something of a familiar.”

“Enough.” the lady in pink said. “We have no need to hear about the cat.”

“The court has no further questions for the witness!” Fudge declared. He looked about wildly, trying to find a way to get the trial back on his ground. Another cough from behind him gave them all pause.

Harry considered the cough… It was a sort of _Hem, hem_ that stuck in her throat like a croak. “Nothing else to say for yourself, Mr. Potter?” Pink simpered. It was not a nice sound. “You’ve barely said a word.”

That they all had dismissed Mr. Tibbens (and Mrs. Figg herself) so outright struck him as odd. Who was there to say that Squibs couldn’t see Dementors? Wouldn’t she know better than they would? And wouldn’t _Harry_ know Voldemort was back better than any of them?

Lewis Carroll had the right of things. Some queens (or bowler hats) were off their rocker.

“You’ve barely said a word.” Pink smiled cruelly at him.

Harry thought this was a rather backwards way of asking him to participate. He raised an eyebrow at her, but said nothing.

“Harry is merely waiting for your charges to finish.” Dumbledore explained softly. He was not looking at Harry, so how he knew this, Harry couldn’t say. “I, however, am rather surprised that you would include past allegations in this hearing. They have no bearing on the current misdemeanor.”

“He will be expelled!” Fudge roared.

Behind him, a red-haired scribe nodded. The red-haired-scribe looked rather like Percy Weasley, but Harry honestly doubted that Percy would be here, so he dismissed the thought.

Dumbledore straightened, inclining his head and waiting for the entire hall to look at him before he responded. His silence was elegant, maybe. Or maybe it was just useful.

“The Ministry proposes to expel Harry Potter from Hogwarts?” Dumbledore asked grandly.

 _The whole room already knows that, but when he says it, it sounds...yes. That’s it. It sounds big._ He rather suspected Dumbledore would go on at great length on the whole moral responsibility, the impending war, and the unfairness of it all. Dudley Dursley may have been a Muggle, but he was also Harry’s family. Harry’s family who _already knew_ about Magic. Why could he be punished for showing Dudley a spell that no one else would ever see? It was all rather ridiculous, Harry thought.

 _Except,_ he remembered, _there was Mrs. Figg also...but she didn’t seem surprised at all. Maybe her cats told her._

“Potter is obviously deranged. He needs to be taken out of that school—we can’t have him sending, sending spells like that on the students!” Fudge shouted, cutting through Harry’s musings.

Harry frowned. Was it even possible to set a Patronus on someone?

“The Ministry—” Dumbledore began again, but Harry had heard enough. He wanted this over, and he wanted to be done.

“I cast the Patronus on the _Dementors._ “ Harry interrupted. “Because they were attacking me and my cousin. Weren’t you listening?”

Dumbledore’s shoulders tensed. Maybe that last bit wasn’t a good question.

Harry continued, only slightly perturbed. “If you can keep the Dementors out of Hogwarts, I won’t have to cast the Patronus again.” Harry reasoned, albeit quietly.

“What?” Someone asked. He recalled their name having something to do with Bones.

“You can trust me.” Harry said in a louder voice. “Please.” He tried to cover the anger with a polite expression, but the words kept coming, and it was hard to control it. “I can do this!” he finished. Or at least, he could once he remembered what it was he was to be doing.

“Well said, Harry.” Dumbledore congratulated. Harry felt a surge of pride trampling the anger, and he sat down on the chair Mrs. Figg had vacated.

“I believe the law has a stipulation,” Dumbledore continued, “that both underage magic and magic in front of Muggles--”

“--especially Muggles who happen to be family, and already know about Magic.” Harry added quickly.

“-- when the Witch or Wizard in question is in danger.” Dumbledore concluded.

Fudge fidgeted. “We have no conclusive evidence that there was any threat to speak of.”

Harry stiffened, offended on Mrs. Figg’s and Mr. Tibbens behalf. “That’s what our witness was for!”

“I believe, Minister and officials, that all we have left to do is wait for your vote.” Bones (whatever her title was), nodded once and spoke in a clear, crisp voice. “Those in favor of clearing the accused of all charges?”

Harry glanced over the assembled witches and witches. They had begun raising their hands-- a great many of them. More than half, easily. He gave a tiny smile.

Bones then said, “And those in favor of conviction?”

Fudge, the lady in pink, and a few other persons raised their hands. Fudge himself appeared to be fighting a battle with a monster in his gut, for when he spoke, his voice was distorted. “Very well, very well....cleared of all charges.”

“Excellent,” said Dumbledore briskly. He relaxed his posture a bit and turned around, sparing neither a glance nor a word for Mrs. Figg or Harry.

He watched as the great witches and wizards stood, all beginning to talk so that the whole air buzzed with the noise, and found that nearly no one was looking at him anymore. No one, that is, except for the lady in pink. Slowly, even she exited.

Harry was left alone in the hall.

He looked away quickly, and quietly made for the exit. He’d had enough of being an owl for today. It was time to go home.

* * *

Harry, Hermione, Ron and Ginny were to leave Grimmauld Place under guard. Harry rather felt that their party was a little large for such measures, but he wasn’t about to argue, having still not decided whether Moody was another imposter, an Auror or an owl. One never could tell, after all.

As they moved their trunks near the front entrance where the Ghost in the Portrait still screamed, Hermione and Ron whispered about something.. Apparently it was quite interesting, as they forgot to keep their voices quiet enough.

“With You-Know-Who building an army and after a weapon, the only reasonable defense is to build up the order,” Ron was telling Hermione.

Fred and George agreed. “Except that it’s hard to recruit with all the rotten news about Dumbledore and Harry. And known convicts sitting in on every meeting.”

“And werewolves,” Fred put in. “It’s not exactly easy to recruit for them, is it? Which is why,” he said, raising his voice,

“We should be made proper members.” George finished.

Hermione shushed them both. “We’re not meant to advertise what we know!” She said in a not-so-quiet whisper.

Mrs. Weasley, the main offender for listening in on her children’s conversations, was too busy arguing with Sirius to notice.

“I’m glad to be out of this house.” Ron muttered loudly in the direction of the adults. “It’s a right headache it is.” He glared at the noisy portrait. “It’s hard to believe Sirius is from this family.” Ron added. “The things we’ve had to clean out...the stuff into the library. I thought that old stuff in the drawing room would kill us all.”

“The Most Noble House of Black,” Fred said with a sly grin, “was darker than most and filled with pitfalls and traps. Sirius let us in on a few good secrets though. Imagine we’ll have some good stuff for our--”

“--the Blacks had a few daughters, didn’t they? I remember seeing the names on that tapestry...” Hermione interrupted absently. She had the look of someone trying to commit everything to memory before it all slipped away.

“The Blacks are all named after stars.” Harry said, surprising everyone (himself included.)

Fred laughed. “Too bad no one could have been named Hole. When they did role call, it’d be--”

“--or better, Uranus-” the twins collapsed into each other.

Harry rolled his eyes. This was another one of the twins’ performances. They often said silly things to distract everyone from something he’d said.

“You’re right, you know, about the stars.” Hermione pointedly ignored the twins. “I looked it up on my star chart and compared it with the Family Tree... It’s quite fascinating, all the history in this house...Bellatrix is also known as the Amazon star, you know. Andromeda is a whole galaxy... Regulus is the heart of the constellation Leo. Sirius is, of course, the Dog Star...they seem particularly apt names.”

“How is Regulus apt? I thought Sirius was the only Lion in his family.” Harry said.

“Well, maybe not all of them...” Hermione allowed, shrugging her hair out of her face. “Maybe it just means he was brave to try and leave?”

“Leave your trunks, leave your trunks! Someone will take them for you and you’ll find them on the platform. You’ll be walking to the station and be there before you know it,” Molly bustled about, waving a dust cloth, of all things.

“You’re not supposed to leave your luggage unattended.” Harry remarked. “Or any old suspicious person could put explosives in it and make you an accidental terrorist.” His warning went unheeded. “Saw that on one of Dudley’s spy films.”

Twenty-five minutes later, they approached the train. The twins and Ginny arrived with the cart full of luggage (not abandoned after all). Ginny made her way toward them while Hermione and Ron stood awkwardly. Hermione chewed her lip, and Ron did something to his robes.

“Did you forget something?” Harry peered at them curiously. “Let’s find a carriage.”

“Harry—I thought you’d noticed,” Hermione said. “But you see, we’ve been made prefects.”

Harry nodded slowly. Yes, Ron did have pin with a large P on it. He was fussing with it...hadn’t the twins mentioned it as well?

“So, we have to go to the prefect’s car, mate.”

“Oh,” Harry felt the word slip out of his mouth like a breath.

Hermione looked at the ground, and her face flushed a bright red. When she finally tore her gaze off the pavement to look at him, she was so flustered he thought she might cry. “You should wait for Neville. Or maybe go with the twins...?”

Harry glanced around. “They’ve gone.”

“Oh.” Hermione said, unconsciously repeating Harry, and all the more embarrassed. “Well. Ah, try the, um, try the--” she looked at Ginny for help.

“There’s plenty of space,” Harry muttered. “Don’t worry about me so much.”

“It’s not the space we’re worried about,” Ron muttered. “Ouch, hey!”

“With all the things happening this summer,” she kept her gaze on Harry, but she did look around the platform once. “I thought it might be good to stick with you. We can sit together.” Ginny said briskly.

Hermione and Ron walked away with many glances back at him, and Harry finally got on the train with Ginny. Harry walked through the train, glancing in compartments to look for a seat beside her. It was the first time he’d been without the other two since he was eleven years old...and the first time he was alone with Ginny. Probably. Unless you counted that time when they’d stolen down to the kitchen together after returning from the World Cup.

“The Hogwarts Express.” Harry said to Hedwig.

Ginny gave him a strange look. “Let’s find a place to sit.”

At first Harry was looking for a familiar face like Neville or maybe even Seamus. Finally, he found Neville in a compartment with a girl who was calmly reading a magazine.

Harry paused for perhaps longer than he meant to, because Ginny started looking annoyed. Or maybe concerned. “Oh, that’s just Neville and Loony—I mean, Luna Lovegood, Harry. She’s all right, really. A bit odd, but funny.”

“Oh, hey Harry!” Neville flagged him in. “Did you have a good summer?”

“Not really. How about you, Neville?” Harry sat down opposite of Luna, and Ginny took the other seat.

“The same as always.” Neville leaned forward conspiratorially. “Are people,” he made a vague gesture with his hands, “you know, being... to you?”

Beside him, Ginny levitated her trunk onto the luggage rack, her face turning faintly pink. Ginny had turned her sharp gaze to Neville, though Harry wasn’t quite sure why, really. Harry casually levitated his trunk into the space next to Ginny’s. Hedwig’s hooted reproachfully when he attempted to open her cage, so he stopped and left her on the floor.

“They are certainly talking.” The girl said, her eyes still fixed on the magazine. ”But don’t worry, Harry. We all believe you.”

“Thanks.” Harry trailed off, but then his curiosity got the better of him. “What are you looking at?”

“Oh, the Quibbler. It’s very interesting.” She glanced up at him for a moment, and her blue eyes seemed friendlier than he first expected.

Harry tilted his head to better see the upside down cover...a headline caught his eye. “Is that about Sirius Black?”

Luna nodded vaguely. “Some of it is. Would you like a copy?” She stopped reading long enough to dig into a very colorful bag, pulled out an extra copy and handed him it.

Neville squirmed in his seat. “Er.” He said. He fiddled with the plant he was holding.

Harry politely asked, “Is it new?”

“Um, yes.” Neville smiled faintly. “It’s really rare, you know.” He continued talking, but Harry had stopped listening in favor of looking closely at the plant.

Neville had taken his quill out, and was still chattering even as he prepared to-- Harry leaned away hastily, pulling his wand out quickly. “Protego.”

Neville prodded one of the plant’s many boils, which promptly erupted, sending slime all over the compartment. “Sorry.” Neville muttered, and started doing something with his wand. Possibly cleaning.

Ginny shifted in her seat, and cast a cleaning charm rather expertly. Harry supposed it was all the practice in the House of Black. After a moment, she seemed to find the perfectly normal silence offensive, and started to make conversation. “Fred and George are selling their Skiving Snack Boxes, did you see? Best stay away from them for now or they might give us all test samples.”

Harry stood up suddenly. The thought of _more people_ was enough to rattle him, and so he muttered a hasty, “I’m going to find the trolley,” before making a quick exit.

Harry avoided the suspicious eyes of his classmates by the simple expedient of pretending they weren’t there. So he was able to brush past the wandering ones without meeting their gazes, and found himself some awkward minutes later near the engine room. He paused to look at the door-- presumably the carriage before that was where Hermione and Ron (and presumably the other P-badge-bearing students) were listening to the Head Boy and Girl. He stared at the door thoughtfully, then thought better of it.

He jabbed his wand at the key-hole, and it opened systematically. There was a friendly voice that said, ‘All spells working normally’ as he stepped over the thresh hold.　

Here would be a nice spot for some peace and quiet.　

The spot just behind the engine was comfortably warm, and out of the way. He watched the magical instruments bob up and down, thinking it unlikely for anyone to find him here. Harry settled himself into the space, watching the meters on the dashboard go up and down, up and down...

Up and down...up and down...  
.  
.  
.

_Harry was dreaming. He saw a stone corridor that could be anywhere in Hogwarts, and it made him dizzy with wondering. Where could he be?_

_He thought he caught a glimpse of a dark nigh sky then, a place so deeply shadowed it could only be that place. The forest. It was cold and it was dark, and he wanted more than anything to leave that place._

_Out. He needed out._

_Harry moved, fast and fleeting. Finally, he caught a glimpse of the corridor again, and on it, a dark window that reflected his image back at him. Dark, dark eyes stared back at him, filled his mind as he slept._

When Harry awoke, it was to a gentle shake.

Harry stared at the hand held out before him, uncertain of whether he should take it. “Are you... train staff?”

“Oh Harry, Harry, Harry. I believe your plan went a little wrong! You’re not in fact, fashionably making an entrance-- something you did second year, I’m told. You never got off the train! Why, I’d say we’re at least an hour away from Hogwarts by now. And let me tell you, it is difficult to Apparate on a moving object! Snape had the better idea, stopping the train...”

“Snape is here?” Harry peered warily around the man’s shoulder.

“Oh yes, of course. I should tell him you’ve been found...” the blond man smiled broader still. “I knew I’d be the one to find you. You and I, we just have a connection, don’t you think?”

Harry did not respond, too busy thinking where Snape might be, and whether or not he was likely to get detention.

“I am Professor Lockhart. Gilderoy Lockhart, famous for _Magical Me_ , along with many other thrilling tales.” Lockhart continued, happily filling the space.

 _Well, if it isn’t our local celebrity._ Harry could practically hear Snape say it, his tone as caustic as ever. He chewed his lip, imagining his most-hated-professor’s reaction to finding him there on the train.

“I fell asleep.” Harry muttered, as though that might be excuse enough.

Lockhart stopped him from moving too far by raising his hand, whereupon he took a step closer and straightened Harry’s shirt. He also ran a hand through Harry’s hair-- or began to, before Harry sidestepped him. Harry moved slightly to the right, easing away from the side of the compartment.

“We should go back.”

“Potter!” Harry could hear the sneer in Snape’s voice, even if he couldn’t see it. ”Are you truly so brainless so as not to realize what time it is? Surely your stomach at least should lend a hint to the severity of your tardiness.”

“He says he fell asleep,” Lockhart said, a certain conspiratorial grandeur that did not endear him to the other professor.

Snape’s eyes had not left Harry. “Did he indeed.”

Harry turned to see what Lockhart would do at that, and Lockhart saved him the trouble of craning his neck by walking forward a pace or three to stand between Harry and the potions master. It was not a place many would have positioned themselves in, so he immediately had Harry’s full attention.

“You see, I found him by the engine room. There must have been some sort of abnormality, seeing that it doesn’t ordinarily allow students in. Perhaps Mister Potter was attending to a faulty charm?”

Harry deflated a bit. _Ah,_ he thought. _He’s not going to do anything...does he_ only _talk?_

“Potter.” Snape said slowly, and Harry’s eyes darted back to him. “What were you doing in the engine room?”

“Sleeping. I was sleeping.” He stuck his chin out, feeling like he must. He usually did, when speaking with Snape after all. At the moment the animosity was a fleeting thing, fixated on something so fluid that it had more in common with nightmares than the man who stood before him. This was the man who hated everything about him (and never let an opportunity to let others know it slip by). And for the moment, Snape seemed to fill in for every wizard who called him a liar. This was the bully who taunted him since he was a child-- but then, this was also the man who stepped in to save him around every other corner.

Harry saw himself, reflected in those dark eyes: his anger came more as peevish frustration. Confused embarrassment. A stupid boy afraid to be called a liar who hid in the engine room. 

But that wasn’t the truth of things… he was dreaming. He was staying secret, staying hidden... someone told him to stay out of sight. Those birds had. He’d been ignored all summer, after all. The thoughts came wild and fast, mixed with memories of the strange dream he’d seen. 

“Were you now?” Snape’s lips curled. His sallow features were at high contrast in the car’s flickering light. “If it suits your busy schedule, Potter, we should return to the castle.” Snape said in a tone that could curdle milk.

Harry nodded. And without so much as asking permission, Snape grabbed onto his arm and Apparated them to the Hogsmeade gate. Harry yelped in surprise, swaying on his feet as he pulled away, all the while glaring daggers at his teacher. He landed in a half-crouch, touching fingers to the dirt and shielding the bulk of his body from further attack before he remembered: _Snape did not come to the Graveyard._

Snape eyed him with distaste. “Do you fancy yourself to be some sort of feral beast, Mr. Potter?” he strode forward to loom over Harry better.

Harry held his ground, not replying. His heart beat erratically in his throat.

“The castle awaits. Your _punishment_ shall undoubtedly be seen to by your Head of House—”

Then there was that cough. “Hem! Hem!”

Harry whirled about, his eyes searching for the noise. His gaze settled on the woman in pink. He noted that she was actually rather short and squat, coming short of an intimidating stature by a fair margin. This was rather surprising, especially remembering her from the hearing.

“I see that you found our errant student,” the high pitched, oddly girlish voice didn’t seem to match Harry’s image of a bullfrog in pink twill. She even had this too-pink shade of lipstick on, and the thickness of it made him wonder what she could possibly be hiding. “His case will be put up for review, I assume? As Superintendent, I think we should push for expulsion,” her bulbous eyes gleamed, “as he is a repeat offender.” 

Harry stared at the woman, edging slowly towards the gates that led up the path and into the castle. He noticed as Snape drew himself up, dark eyes flashing and greasy hair lending nicely to his bat-like appearance. “While I agree that Mr. Potter’s presence is ever an irritant,” Snape droned, “I’m afraid that is not up to you, Superintendent.” Each clipped, crisp syllable sounded much better when wielded _not_ against Harry, and so he took the time to appreciate the sound of them. Then Snape turned to Harry and ruined the image. “March, Potter. Detention begins tomorrow. You’ve already taken up too much of our time!” Snape ordered, relieving Harry of any opportunity to talk to the woman in pink. They passed the rest of the trek in silence, though the Superintended (or whatever she was) looked as though she had other things to say.

Back in the castle, Dumbledore, McGonagall and several more of the teachers gathered by the doors. Harry was made uncomfortably aware of their eyes on him, and the noxious smell that seemed to be the pink woman’s perfume.

“He was on the train, cowering behind the engines. Asleep, so he says.” Snape drawled, announcing to the assembled teachers. “Lockhart should manage Apparating back in a few more minutes, I’m certain.” He added as an afterthought.

Of all the eyes fixed on Harry, it was the lack of the piercing blue-eyes that struck him. Dumbledore still would not look at him. Harry wondered if he was invisible again...it was a not entirely unwelcome feeling, it being oddly reminiscent of primary school. No one noticed him then either.

“I’ll just be going to bed then...” Harry muttered, trying to escape as soon as possible.

“Mr. Potter, I do not know what possessed you to cause such trouble on your first day back, especially knowing the danger you could be in!” McGonagall seemed reluctant to let him walk away. She stepped neatly in front of him.

Dumbledore began, “I believe this matter of discipline is more than adequately handled by the Head of House. Thank you all for helping us search for Mr. Potter. The rest of us should continue with the ordinary schedule.” Dumbledore told a nearby statue. Or at least that was what Harry assumed he was looking at. “Good evening, all.”

Harry took that as his cue to leave, and went.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> madness, also called psychosis or insanity, is generally considered a loss of contact with reality. I prefer the term 'neurodivergece,' which recognises the variety in types of brains and ways of thinking, and some who use it are trying to avoid pathologising and stigmatizing people. 
> 
> 'Madness' is a word to be careful with. I think words have power, so I don't really like 'mental illness,' and prefer 'mad' or 'crazy,' but some other word might convince me more later. I've also heard psychiatric disability used, but I prefer to use the specific word itself. Like schizophrenia or depression, or bipolar.
> 
> Madness manifests itself exactly the same in different people. It can consist of unusual or bizarre behavior, difficulty with social interaction, and more. There's a lot of different types, and they are not mutually exclusive; hallucinations, delusions, or impaired insight are three basic divisions. 
> 
> It's safe to say, at the very least, Harry experiences clouded consciousness, possibly post traumatic stress disorder, and maybe something else. I'd like to mention that I'm not a professional psychologist, psychiatrist, or therapist, and cannot diagnose anyone. 
> 
> Also, I have done research and thought about how to show the more human side of what Harry's going through, but this still **may bother or trigger** some people who are neurodivergent. For that, I apologise and hope I can understand your voice and experience by talking. 
> 
> I'm trying to sort through my feelings and experiences, which is often very negative, and not very helpful (which leads to some abilist crap being said by characters. I don't believe what they say, and I hope that's clear in the story). But writing about it is helpful for me. But that doesn't mean I can't be wrong, or I shouldn't listen to what you have to say. I like talking to people, actually.
> 
> I'm trying to explore societal reaction to mental health in young adults (like Harry). I am neurodivergent myself, but not in the same way Harry is. Feel free to send me a message if you want to talk; I'm very up for conversations.
> 
> Madness is an intrinsic part of who Harry is in this story, so I thought I should write that... but there is of course, a plot. XD


	4. A stranger at Hogwarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry returns to Gryffindor Tower, and when he wakes up the next morning, who does he find at Hogwarts? None other than Tom Riddle. 
> 
> (Late August.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: er, canon-divergence. Tom is back. ♥ 
> 
> **December, 2014** rewritten for clarity. ♥

**Chapter 4:** _A Stranger at Hogwarts_

The castle wasn’t nearly as welcoming as it should have been. Harry had thought it would all get better after returning to Hogwarts; this was a haven against Voldemort, after all. Voldemort couldn’t get in…except for disguised teachers, hidden Rats, Basilisks left to slumber underground and whatnot. _Well,_ he thought waspishly, _I doubt Voldemort’d be able to possess anyone anymore. Seeing that he’s got his own body back._

McGonagall had only lectured him until they were out of sight of the other teachers. Then she had quietly walked him back to the Gryffindor common room, and told him, “ _Your punishment will be to go to bed without supper._ ” But no, that was Aunt Petunia. Really, what she said was, “The others are very worried about you. And…Mr. Potter? Please know that you can consult me if you are feeling…threatened. I want you to know that you are not alone in this castle.”

Harry must have nodded or said something in return, but it didn’t matter. Soon he was through the Portrait Hole and studiously avoiding the gaze of all the Gryffindors left in the common room.

“Harry, why didn’t you stay with Neville? Everyone was so worried!” Hermione fell into him, hugging him tightly. Harry belatedly noticed she had been crying.

“I fell asleep,” Harry said, pulling away from his friend.

Ron stood back awkwardly before heaving a huge sigh. “You missed a hell of a lot.” Ron said finally. “There was a speech and everything from that new Super-what’s-it, and everyone was talking about where you’d gone.”

Harry paused to digest this. When it didn’t click, he turned to Hermione for explanation.

Blinking several times as she took a deep breath, Hermione began slowly. “Professor Lockhart is the defense teacher, and Superintendent Umbridge has been sent to Hogwarts by the Ministry. She seems to be in charge of rules and discipline, as well as reviewing the current professors’ classes.”

“How did you even get all of that from a _speech?_ ” Ron said incredulously. “I barely understood any of what she was saying. So boring.” He looked self-consciously at Harry then, and the attempt to seem normal fell flat. He was frowning just-slightly.

Harry, not wanting to look at a disappointed face (that had no right to be, especially), allowed his gaze to wander to the side of the common room. There were a few new little students, of course, and in a chair by the fire, Ginny was already curled up, breathing softly. Her expression was not as relaxed as it should have been, though. _Maybe she’s having dreams too..._ Harry thought, distracted.

“I think the weapon is something here.” Harry found himself saying in a low voice.

Hermione and Ron both started at that. “For the order, you mean?” Ron asked cautiously.

“No. He’s looking for a weapon... It’s here.” Harry insisted. “And we need to be careful. This year more than ever.” He looked around the common room for the twins, who might agree. But they were absorbed in a conversation with Lee Jordan.

“Be careful, Harry.” Hermione advised. “The Superintendent will be here a lot for the Ministry, and if she catches you looking for trouble--”

“Yeah.” Harry interrupted. “I know.”

Then he made his way toward the fifth year dormitories, eager to be away from the rest of the prying eyes.

“Sweet dreams.” Someone called to him, and Harry tensed.

“Right. Dreams... Good night.” And he left.

o0o0o0o

* * *

 

Harry woke up all at once, the images of his dream snapping as he opened his eyes. Only the feeling remained—dread so deep it made his heart speed and his stomach plummet. He breathed tightly, trying to slow down, to gulp in the air and not hiccup it. _It’s because of the castle._ He thought, not unreasonably. Then again, he’d been feeling cornered since the Graveyard; even he knew he wasn’t thinking straight. He just tried not to think about it, mostly.

He listened to his classmates. One, two, three, four, all breathing steadily. Slowly, he drew back the curtains. All was silent and still; the moonlight crept in from the window just enough to know that no one was there who shouldn’t be. He watched for several long minutes, calming himself. The feeling of unease wouldn’t go away.

He fell asleep again without consciously realizing it. He returned to the dreams— _he needed to go. He wanted to._ _The thing he sought was just out of reach, and if he just stepped closer_ —

“Good to be back.” Someone was saying. It might have been Seamus Finnigan. So that meant it was Ron and the others who were noisily closing their trunks, tromping around their dormitory. Harry considered ignoring them, but his stomach growled too loudly for that.

“Harry, you up?” Ron asked casually. “You must be starved! If you’d stayed up a little later, Fred and George’d have managed to smuggle you something. So. Uh. Me and Hermione will be waiting—”

“Yeah.” Harry said shortly. Ron stepped out of the room, and Harry dressed in record time. He’d waited long enough that it was easy to avoid everyone—the last of the others were stepping through the Portrait Hole as he shut the Dormitory door. So it was him, Hermione, and Ron who brought up the rear as half the Gryffindor House showed up just a little late to breakfast.

“Do you think they’ll have any more of that pudding? You know, the hazelnut kind instead of vanilla.” Ron said.

Harry absent-mindedly shrugged, walking past the other students while trying not to think about how they were staring at him. They’d all have realized he was missing since yesterday, but what that meant to them, he didn’t know. He wasn’t an owl; he couldn’t know. Then something pulled his attention away, spoiling his intentions of sitting straight down and ignoring the lot of them.

The Slytherin table was as nasty as usual, and instead of seeing a few older students wielding forks and knives, his mind jerked back. Harry remembered the silver-masked Death Eaters; their parents. They’d all been at the graveyard, hadn’t they? He turned his head to look at them, Nott, Crabbe and Goyle, and a sneering boy he barely recognized as Harper, a fourth year student. He swept his gaze over them, wanting them to know that he wasn’t cowed. He wouldn’t let their rumors of ‘insanity’ or ‘attention-seeking boy’ stop him from warning the world of Voldemort’s return.

And there he was. Sitting there as though he belonged, a strangely familiar boy with pale skin and glittering dark eyes. Tom Riddle caught his gaze and smiled.

Harry stopped walking. He could cast a spell—he could shield the rest of the Slytherins (even if they didn’t deserve it) and stun him there. He could hold him up for Dumbledore to see, to show them all that _he was right._ Voldemort was back, and here was proof. Rage boiled behind Harry’s eyes, and his hands shook. The new scars on his wrists stung something fierce. He had his wand in hand, ready to cast—

“Come on, Harry.” Hermione whispered furiously. “What are you doing?”

Harry breathed in deep, straining against his memories. If he did that, he would be played. Voldemort was planning something, and _Dumbledore had let him in._ Why? He shot a glance at the High Table, looking for answers there. Only Snape met his gaze, and Dumbledore was nowhere to be found.

“Hello Tom.” Harry said stiffly, jerking his arm out of Hermione’s grasp. Ron came back a ways to stand beside him. The words jumped out of his mouth before he could think about it; “You weren’t at the Graveyard.”

When he looked back, Tom’s eyes were glazed. Something was off.

The Slytherins stopped talking and turned to look from Harry to Tom. Draco Malfoy sneered. He might have said something, too, but Harry wasn’t listening. All of his concentration was on Tom Riddle; even the cacophony of sound in the Great Hall dimmed. All he saw was the boy. The one who _wasn’t_ Voldemort’s new body, but looked so like Tom Riddle from the diary…maybe a bit younger. Not so far from Harry’s age, really.

“Ooooh, scary! What’s he on about? Can’t believe he even bothered to turn up—” Pansy said scornfully.

“Finally make it here, Potter? Surprised you weren’t thrown out all together,” Malfoy griped.

Riddle stared back at him, but his eyes flickered to his classmates, uncomfortable. Riddle spoke carefully. “What do you remember?”

“The duel.” Harry replied, and the surrealness of the conversation struck him. He was exchanging words over breakfast with _Tom Riddle,_ a memory of the boy who became Lord Voldemort, murderer, the one who’d gone farther than any alive in pursuit of the Dark Arts. Any sympathy he might have had for Riddle vanished. This was no doppelganger; this wasn’t a boy spelled to look like the boy from half a century before. It was him, wasn’t it? _But he hasn’t got red eyes. What happened to the white skin?_ The incongruity of it struck him sharply.

“Leave it.” Ron said flatly. “He’s just a fourth year, and not worth our time. Breakfast’s waiting, isn’t it? Come on.”

Harry tore his gaze away from Riddle and stared directly at Snape as he found his place at the Gryffindor table. He had too many questions, and all summer, no one thought he needed to know any of the answers. He reached for the pumpkin juice and a piece of toast. Snape watched him beadily from where he sat, but he made no move toward the imposter at the Slytherin Table.

He was trying…to…what? Tom Riddle from Tom Riddle’s diary was ….perhaps plotting to overthrow magical England from the breakfast table.

“This is weird.” Harry said finally, after having attacked the toast. “Tom Riddle is sitting there. _Right there_ and no one is doing anything about it. You can see him, can’t you?”

Harry thought he saw a hint of confusion in Hermione’s keen gaze. “Why wouldn’t we be able to see him?” Hermione replied.

“Er, you aren’t talking about Harper, are you?” Harry asked carefully. “I meant _Tom Riddle._ The boy from the Chamber of Secrets.”

Ron and Hermione both had a glazed look in their eyes then. A heartbeat later, though, and they were both proclaiming loudly. “It’s only our first day back, and _already_ you’re looking for some sort of trouble for Riddle to have gotten into? Last year it was Karkaroff and Snape being Death Eaters, but what’s Riddle done?” Hermione asked.

“Wait.” With a look of outrage on Harry’s behalf, Ron half stood to get a look at Riddle. “He didn’t enchant you to fall asleep on the train, did he? That rotten--”

“I can’t remember him being at the Graveyard.” Harry said quietly, leaning in closer. He nearly sent the Pumpkin Juice crashing onto his plate.

Ron and Hermione exchanged another glance. Hermione took her time to reply. “Really, Harry, you barely speak sense to anyone all summer, and now all you want to talk about is Riddle? He had nothing to do with those You-Know-Who incidents. We can talk about this after lessons, all right?” Her gaze softened. “You want to talk about what happened, don’t you? All right. We’ll listen.” She gave him a brave smile.

Harry shook his head. “I’ve been talking sense. It’s you who can’t listen.”

From across the table, Ginny Weasley leaned in a bit closer. She had been sitting there all along, Harry supposed. “What’s going on?” She asked, alarmed.

“Harry. He said something about Riddle. You know how they get.”

Harry frowned. “How do you mean ‘ _how we get_?’ Like Chamber of Secrets getting on? Or like Philosopher’s Stone getting on?”

“Harry,” Hermione said gently, “Riddle had nothing to do with any of that. That was You-Know-Who.”

“...so you know that Tom Riddle, looking no older than 15 or 16 over there, calmly eating breakfast right now. And have no problem with this. Even though it’s been at least 50 years since he was that age...” Harry looked puzzled. “First, how did you find out before I did?”

Ron and Hermione exchanged baffled looks. Neither was nearly as alarmed as Harry expected (or wanted) them to be. “It’s been a hard year for you, Harry.” Hermione said in her ‘this is for your own good’ voice.

“Shut it, Harry!” Ginny Weasley mouthed, glancing around at the Gryffindors on either side of their conversation. She made warning eyes at him, but all Harry could do was shrug helplessly as Hermione tried her (less subtle. Also less normal) ways of getting Harry to keep quiet.

She swiftly began to lose any points she’d gotten for wanting to listen to him as she went on. “So I know you expect something terrible to happen, but remember, this is Hogwarts. The graveyard was...not so long ago, yes, but it’s been months.” She wavered when Harry’s expression darkened. “But You Know Who, he can’t be at Hogwarts. The wards, the teachers, the...the castle’s magic. It wouldn’t let him. Not without an army.”

Ron skewered a sausage with his fork. “Also, Riddle has been here since Ginny has, so I really don’t see why you’re surprised that he’s here.” He nodded his head in Harry’s direction. “Ringing any bells?”

 “Shut up, Ron!” Ginny protested, prodding her brother. “Talk later. People are listening.”

 Harry rubbed the tip of his nose. “No. Continue explaining why you aren’t surprised at Riddle being here.” He gestured for them to speak.

 Ron looked at Hermione instead of Harry as he spoke. “Tom is in Ginny’s year. Also, uh, we just want you to know that we don’t think you’re a lying or attention seeking whatever-they-said. You know that, right?”

 Hermione sighed, agitated. “What Ronald means to say, Harry, is that we’re worried about you, but we don’t distrust you. It’s just...strange. Why are you so concerned about Riddle? Can you explain it again?” She picked at the edge of her sleeve.

 “I told you.” Ron declared. “He saw Riddle just now, remembered their old feud, and lost his temper. They’re building up for another row...” he paused significantly. “Let’s just eat. Voldemort wouldn’t be hanging out looking like Tom Riddle. The kid’s weird, but not particularly well-connected or even that powerful.”

 “No!” Harry protested. His stomach lurched, the sense that something had happened, something profound had changed in the minds of his friends overnight. “What’s with you two?”

 “Let’s just go, then!” Ginny said, her voice forcibly bright and cheerful. She took one of Harry’s elbows, and dragged him away from the table. “I know it’s weird too.” Ginny hissed as they walked. “Look at them—their eyes get all weird and unfocused… it’s like they’ve been jinxed. Harry, this is probably the whole castle! Remember the diary—I couldn’t get rid of it…things just had to play out. Don’t let your guard down, but stop. Talking. People already think you’re nuts.” She fixed him with such a fierce, practical look that Harry instantly shut up.

 “You tried telling people Tom isn’t supposed to be here then?”

 “I tried being sensible! I said ‘strange that Riddle’s sitting over there.’ And I got a lot of that crap Hermione and Ron just said. It was weird.”

 “Ok. Ok. So we need a plan. Let’s follow Riddle.” Harry suggested. “Did you try asking one of the professors yet?”

Ginny made a face. “Not yet. So… we just wait for him to leave and see if we can get him on his own. Sure.” A few minutes passed. Harry was barely aware of Ginny, who alternated between staring at him and the door. She didn’t seem as sad as Sirius, or as fakely worried as the other adults. She was insanely curious, though.

Students began to trickle out of the Great Hall in pairs or small groups. Finally, Riddle came out among them. Harry and Ginny exchanged glances and went after. In the din, it should have been hard to notice that they were following, but soon enough, Riddle went down a corridor on his own and was almost instantly out of sight. _Strange,_ Harry thought.

Ginny and Harry went down the corridor, and Harry felt a pang of sympathy for Craig and Goyle in second year…being lead down a corridor only to find a cupcake and no perpetrator in sight. He looked around for suspicious bakery treats, or alcoves in which Riddle might be hiding.

“I’ll double-back.” Harry said.

“No, I will.” Ginny shot back. “He can’t have got far, but…listen, you see him, you come get me.”

Harry gave her a strange look. “Same goes for you.” Then, after a moment, “Don’t let yourself alone with the vanishing snark. Er, in case it’s a Boojum. (*1)”

Ginny waved his suggestion away and hurried down the corridor.

Harry had barely taken a step when out of plain sight, Tom Riddle flickered into view like a chameleon.

“You’re not real.” Harry told him. “My mind is playing tricks.”

“No, that was an Invisibility Charm.” Riddle replied, soft as anything. He looked dangerously close to laughter.

“Why does no one care that _there’s a murder_ in the castle.” Harry said in a voice too reasonable to be reasonable. He started looking around, thinking of shortcuts and traps, looking out for a Ghost or anything that might let _someone know._ “It should be Sirius Black all over again, and end with everyone locking _you_ in a cell for a Dementor.”

“That’s not very charitable of you.” Riddle replied. “But everyone will tell you…I’m just a school boy. A year younger than you.”

“If you’re anything, you’re a piece of Voldemort. Ginny! He’s here!”

“She can’t hear you.” Riddle smiled.

“You’ve put the whole Castle under a Confundus charm, then?”

“Impossible. But you wouldn’t know…you’re already insane. They speak of nothing else…so how can you trust your memory? I’ve been here all along.”

“Why are you here?” Harry demanded. Voldemort was always ready to tell him; he had to go on about how much better Voldemort was at magic, at how useless it was to fight back—

“Why do you think? I’m here to learn Magic, Harry Potter.”

“You’re a spy.” Harry replied. “A really daft spy who looks like the young, evil dark lord wannabe. You’re here to curse us. To…” _bring me back to Voldemort so he can finish the job._

“Am I?” Riddle smiled charmingly. “You haven’t got this figured out, Potter. Just let me find out what I’m here for, and leave me out of your little games. I won’t curse you.” He turned away.

“No. You listen to me. There aren’t any Death Eaters here now, Riddle. You haven’t got the advantage. If you try to strike out, to hurt anyone—the whole school will be at your throat.”

“You think they don’t know. The teachers, I mean. They know who I am—and that’s not the Dark Lord. They _let me in,_ Harry Potter. Everyone is under Dumbledore’s spell...so he can teach me to be a ‘real little boy.’” Riddle tapped a finger against the wall behind him. “Yes, Harry. Dumbledore. This has nothing to do with the other's plans. Now be good, and let me go. Don’t bother me. Don’t get in my way. I’ve got work to do.”

Harry’s head hurt. Not his scar, as he had suspected it would, but just because of all the things he was supposed to be doing, all the things he was feeling instead. He couldn’t (wouldn’t) trust Tom Riddle at his word.

“' _I ask you riddles, tell you tales, But all our conversation fails. You never answer me again-- I fear you’re dumb, Matilda Jane!'_ ” (*2) Harry shouted at the retreating figure.

Riddle swirled about, his calm face changing to confusion. _“What?”_ Riddle’s confusion had surprised them both, wringing the word from him unconsciously. Then all he had was disgust left to him, showing clearly on handsome features. Then he cloaked his feelings once more with a smooth facade. “Is that a poem you’re quoting at me?”

All thoughts of spells were gone from Harry’s mind. “I know this is really an elaborate scheme of Voldemort’s to try and kill me once and for all. It happens every year, you know…but I was sure it was the dreams....”

“What dreams?” Tom demanded.

Harry shook his head, mute.

Riddle licked his lips, considering. He stood there, thinking. Finally, he closed his eyes, as though remembering. “When once a meal I wished to taste, It said ‘You must not bite.’ When to the wars I went in haste, It said ‘You must not fight.’ ‘What may I do?’ at length I cried, Tired of the painful task. The fairy quietly replied, And said ‘You must not ask.’”

Tom opened his eyes, which glinted with a strange light. That alone made Harry stare. ( _Not red..._ , he thought.)

“Do not ask me, Harry Potter. Ask Dumbledore. Or ignore me. Good day.” Tom brushed past Harry, his elbow jostling Harry from his spot. Harry tried to grab him, to stop him, to know that at least what he was talking to was real. _In the flesh_ sort of real. Harry caught Tom’s hand and Tom hissed, hurriedly pulling it away. But there was no Quirrel-like rending of flesh or an instantaneous pain in his scar. Honestly, Harry was almost as surprised as Tom was.

_Tom Riddle was real._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> (*1) Snark, Lewis Carroll. Not to be confused with the unrelated verb, to snark. Lewis Carroll’s The Hunting of the Snark (published 1876) states that the snark is good to eat and “handy for striking a light,” unless it is a Boojum, in which case if you touch it, “You will softly and suddenly vanish away, And never be met with again!” ♥  
> (*2) “Bessie’s Song to her Doll”, by Lewis Carroll. 1903.  
> (*3) Lewis Carroll: “My Fairy.” Written when Carroll was 13, first published in Useful and Instructive Poetry, 1845.


	5. Potions and Two Way Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry goes to potions and royally bothers Snape. Divination is hard for Ron, and Harry talks to Ginny (the only other person not blind to the Tom situation). Defense against the Dark Arts features a Read Aloud session with Lockahart, and Harry finally uses the two way mirror. Early September.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 1: One person wanted to know if this would be an anti!Dumbledore fic. Interesting question! So. it is **not** actually my intent to bash him/ write anti-Dumbledore (or anti-Ron.)  
>  Actually! Fic rec~! Read “Eldritch!” by Eldritcher. The author writes Dumbledore (and 8 (I think) year old Riddle re~ally well. Really. Read it. It is pure genius.
> 
> A/N 2: yes, Lockhart is important to the plot. He is Harry’s Defense Teacher in the fifth year only, for the **first** time. (I meant to allude to that, but apparently it didn’t work. XD) Which means! There was another professor during Harry’s second year: **Elphias Doge.** Doge is only important in passing to fill in for Harry’s second year defense teacher. Harry will go into some detail about Doge later. 
> 
> To the purists who’d rather I didn’t switch Lockhart’s year, I’m sorry. :( But Lockhart was just too perfect to pass up when I needed someone to play a role...

Chapter 5: Potions and Two Way Mirrors

* * *

Harry turned around in the hall before potions class, just as the student behind him looked down. The two of them jarred elbows and hands, and there was a loud rustle of parchment.

“Sorry.” Harry muttered. His eyes were trained on something on the ceiling. “But you might want to--”

“Harry!” Ron hissed. “We’ll be late. You better get a move on, or Snape’ll have your guts for dinner!”

Harry wondered what guts tasted like even as they raced down the corridor, only slowing when they got to the dungeon doors. Harry blew out a long breath and calmed his nerves. Potions class was about to begin.

The students had already taken their accustomed seats in the classroom when Professor Snape entered. There was no chatter for him to frown at, but Harry noticed the thin line of annoyance that lingered on his face. His eyes swept over the motionless class as he strode purposefully among their tables.

“Though some you may not have realized it, as one number was missing during the Welcoming Feast and the following explanations, this year shall be strenuous, to say the least. I have one year to put you into shape—you will learn Ordinary Wizarding Level potions. As you know, I only take the best students for the advanced potions class. So many of us will have our happy goodbyes.” His eyes lingered on Neville, and then Harry as he said this. “That day has yet to come, and so here we are. The instructions for today’s potion are on the blackboard.” He raised his wand, and sixteen long points appeared on the board.

Harry squinted. It looked as though it said, _Draught of Death_ for a moment, but then he adjusted his glasses, and it turned out to read, _Draught of Peace._ He gave a sigh of relief.

After some examination, Professor Snape’s handwriting looked rather like a crow’s, Harry decided. Even after adjusting his glasses several times, the letters still appeared thin, rather slanted, and suspiciously spidery for a crow’s work. He wondered how many times a crow would have to prance to get that effect. He took out his textbook, looking for the same potion instructions. He flipped through the pages, and stopped when he found the title.

“This potion,” Harry remarked to Ron who was on his left, “is particularly moody. It changes its colors at every step. Do you suppose it can’t decide what color it likes? Either that or it likes bright colors, like Professor Dumbledore.”

“The supply cabinet’s open.” Hermione reminded them as she returned with her hands full. “You really ought to get started! An hour and a half is hardly enough time.”

Harry nodded vaguely, turning the page to the next potion. It was a much more interesting looking specimen ( _Fairfellows Solution_ : Increases Perception by 30%). Maybe he could make that. He was already making a catalogue of what to get from the cabinet and get started on this second potion when Snape gave a _cough_ behind him.

“What are you doing, Potter?” he cawed. “Do you find the class instructions lacking?”

“Couldn’t see them properly.” Harry replied, and this was more or less true now because everyone else had foggied up the room.

“Get back on task. You’re behind.” He started to stalk away before turning back with a flap of a wing feather and a cruel smile. “Ten points from Gryffindor for slacking.”

Harry watched the crow hop away, giving insults to the other students as it went. He privately wondered why such comments used to make him angry, when now they inspired a mild sense of puzzlement and curiosity: how did a crow manage to say such cleverly biting remarks, when it only had a beak? No vicious teeth to speak of.

“Right.” Harry said to no one in particular.

He finally went to the supply cabinet, textbook in hand and a basket fashioned of his Divination textbook. He vaguely remembered that Divination was just after this class, but that hadn’t stopped him from pressing it into service.

Step after painstaking step, Harry helped the potion change its mood (and its color). A few times, the crow came by again, but Harry couldn’t (wouldn’t) make out its comments. He simply had no time for them. An hour and a half, it turned out, was barely enough time to help the potion with its metamorphosis.

Looking around the room, he found varying kinds of temperament in the other students’ potions. Hermione appeared to be the only one who had a trace of silver steam and white, and the others had vastly different colors (from screaming black, unsuspecting gray to sultry pink, and one indiscriminant brown.) Harry’s own potion was a lovely shade of orange. He thought it looked rather conspicuous though, and was just about to add the porcupine quills when Snape called time. Harry was going to add the porcupine quills anyway, but then the most mysterious thing happened. The potion disappeared.

Harry looked up, shocked.

“Your examiner will not appreciate you going overtime. When I call time, your hand stops moving.” Snape said.

“Er.” Harry said. “But you’re not my examiner.”

“That will be another ten points for cheek, and a zero for today’s work.”

Harry watched him go, thinking dark thoughts about crows. Putting them in a pie, chasing them into a house with no windows… he stood up and stormed out of the classroom, barely even noticing his friend’s calls for him to stay. He wanted out _now._

“Ahem.” That pink voice said. “Mr. Potter, is it not? Is there something the matter?” Harry was beginning to despise pink.

“No.” He replied. “I’m going to class.”

“Do watch where you’re going, Mr. Potter,” she reminded him in her simpering voice, “so that I won’t have to assign another detention on top of your other punishments.”

Harry decided that perhaps now was not the time to inform her that he had not received any punishments yet. Not particularly wanting one, he simply nodded, and made his way to the Divination tower. With classes still on the brain, Harry sneaked and dodged down the corridors.

"Wait up!" Ron called. "What a rotten thing even for Snape! Wait, what are you-- you _are_ heading for Divination, aren’t you?"

"Yes." Harry replied, scanning the Marauder’s Map furtively. He’d find Tom’s name any second now...  
“Harry—wait!” Hermione added.

"What are you doing then? We’d better hurry, or we’ll be late. Again!" Ron said, though he didn’t sound bothered. In fact, he leaned in casually to glimpse the map in Harry’s hands.

"There!" Harry stole around the corner, eyes scanning for a certain name.

Tom Riddle’s dot was perfectly still, not so very far from where they were now. Just around the corner, in fact. This in itself might have caused concern, if it weren’t for the fact that several other Slytherins in his year were nearby. Harry lengthened his steps.

Before he saw Riddle, though, he noticed one of the taller Slytherins pressed close together. Conspiring? Talking? He recognized Harper and was vaguely concerned with how tight his hand was around the girl’s waist, until he noticed that she was also in Slytherin.

_Why was Tom Riddle watching that pair kiss?_

Tom’s expression was deliberately vague. His eyes weren’t wide and surprised, nor narrowed in suspicion or annoyance. He just...looked.

Ron groaned. "No, not now. You are _not_ arguing with Riddle now-- he’s off limits. We are going to the Tower, remember?"

Harry slipped easily out of Ron’s fumbling grasp. "What’s he doing watching them?"

"I dunno?" Ron snorted. "Being a wanker." He offered vaguely.

"Honestly! You’re as bad is he is," Hermione hissed. She tugged both Harry and Ron by their sleeves, urging them towards the halls to the spindly stair that led to their classroom. " _I_ am going to class." With that, they parted ways.

Professor Trelawney started class by handing out dream oracles for them all to begin with hardly any tears or vapors.

"I never remember my dreams." Ron sad dully, looking with distaste at the cover. "You go first." He insisted, after they’d listened to the others chatting a bit. Neville, Harry learned, apparently dreamed about marshmallows and scissors, and it was vaguely...no, certainly fascinating.

Harry turned his attention away. "Dreams." He repeated. "I dream of the graveyard..." he said at first, unaware as Ron suddenly got very tense. He closed his eyes. "But lately," he leaned forward, suddenly remembering, "I’ve been dreaming of the castle."

Ron was still as a mummy for a moment, barely even breathing. Then he lurched forward for the textbook and started flipping through it like a lifeline.

Harry decided to improvise. He would completely invent the dream as he went. “I thought at first it was that dream of the corridor—the other dream I kept having this summer—but this time it turned out to be the hallway in front of the library. I was pulling out books off the shelves, and the books were flying around like birds, trying to eat all my quills. And then I found Tom Riddle’s diary. It was still leaking ink like blood, and it dripped all over my hands. I threw it to the ground, and the ink became Tom Riddle, who somehow had become real.

“And then everyone came in and joined hands and started singing ‘he’s been here all along, Harry!’ And I told them ‘no he hasn’t.’” Harry stopped to breathe. “But only Ginny believed me. She was there, you know...”

Ron hid his face, a burning red, behind the textbook. "Um. So we better start with, uh quills. And corridors." He snuck a look at Harry. "You help. Where’s your book, anyway?" Then he spied the basket. "Wait. That’s the same color...you didn’t transfigure it, did you?"

Harry nodded. "I did. It makes a good basket."

"Well, turn it back!"

"No, it’s much more useful like this. I know what my dreams mean..."

Ron gave an exasperated sigh. "No, that’s not the point. We’re supposed to be looking up the meaning for the assignment."

Harry shook his head stubbornly. "No, I’m not asking the book. I’m asking you. What _else_ could the dream mean?"

Ron turned out to be equally stubborn. He flipped through the pages, and summarized his findings, "Hallways symbolize transitions. And, uh, self-exploration...and opportunity. Quills represent self-expression, and they’re being eaten by books... so... maybe you’re feeling like you can’t express yourself with library books? And the hallway. So you want to express yourself someday. Let’s look up libraries too...”

“Ron.”

“Not now, Harry. Hermione and I already told you.” He lowered his voice. “Tom Riddle is just a sad little kid. A loner. An outcast. He might be vicious and evil as every other Slytherin, but he does a better job at hiding it, never causing trouble or attracting too much attention.”

“If he doesn’t stand out, why did I make a big deal of him before, like you say! Shouldn’t his and my rivalry be at least as famous as me and Malfoy?” Harry hissed.

Ron’s mouth dropped open. “You’re actually making sense. But you don’t make sense at all!” Ron groaned. “Mate, how would you explain the whole castle being Confunded?”

“I don’t. I think Voldemort, or Tom Riddle or whatever he is did it.” He refused to consider the possibility that Professor _Dumbledore_ might have done the Confuding, no matter what Tom said.

“Quiet!” Ron muttered.

Harry looked around, but seeing no one even glancing at them, raised an eyebrow. “What? It’s like that’s part of the spell, the way no one notices me bringing up all the contradictions!"

“Ok, let’s go over one of my dreams.” Ron finished scribbling down the first half of Harry’s fictional dream.

The rest of the class was all very dull, going through the dream oracle.

“A month?” Ron was saying as they left. “We have to write down our dreams for a month?” He sounded very indignant.

“Just make it up.” Harry suggested. “I don’t want to write down my real ones…”

“Lunch time, Harry. Where are you…?” Ron started, but was stalled as a distraught first year Gryffindor ran down the hallway toward him.

“You’re a prefect, right?” The girl was saying. She started to go on about whatever it was she needed help with.

Harry paid them no mind, and went to the find Ginny. She would listen, even if she didn’t have any more answers than he did.

After getting a tip from a different Gryffindor girl, Harry found her in the library, sitting at one of the tables.

Ginny chewed her lower lip as she read, Harry realized as he watched her sit there, surrounded by books on ghosts as apparitions. Harry considered looking up a spell to look over people’s shoulders to see what page she lingered over, but decided simply walking over would be best.

Ah. A page on how to vanquish (or possibly send on. The wording was vague) lost spirits and exorcize demons. “Is that for Professor Binns?” He asked curiously.

Ginny whirled around, her shoulders tensing. Although she tried to smile at Harry, her expression was decidedly startled. “No, it’s not. It’s about Tom.”

“Ah.” Harry said conversationally. “No one believes me, except you. But you know, I don’t think whatever the diary was is exactly a spirit or demon…I thought he was a ghost of a memory, you know.”

Ginny stared at Harry, her eyes looking large and questioning. “I don’t believe he’d exactly tell us what he was even if he knew,” She said quietly, but firmly. She cast a glance at the librarian, who was fixing Harry with a stern look.

“True. I had this crow who insisted that he was a bat once...”

Ginny looked skeptical. In fact, her face seemed suited to making all sorts of expressions.

“What do you mean?” She asked slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Just what I said!” Harry was concentrating on the text again. He turned the page to see a fanciful illustration of a demon (or was it an ogre?) and a wizard who was trying to banishing it.

“You should consider your words more carefully.” Ginny advised. “People can’t make sense of them, so they think...” she hesitated then plowed on. “You heard what they think.”

Harry shook his head, annoyed. “I am thinking.” Instead of banishing the demon, the wizard in the book was devoured by it. It was an interesting picture. “I didn’t really hear them. Not listening. But Ron told me the papers say I’m a liar. I hate liars, though…”

Ginny gave him another long look. If Harry was feeling more unkind, he would say she starred. “You seem more and more like Luna these days...”

Harry vaguely remembered Luna. “She was the girl with the magazines.” He said. “You like Luna.” Harry pointed out. “You said she’s ok.”

“But you’re not—you weren’t,” she glared at him defiantly. “Is this all an act? Or did the Dementors suck out all your sense?” Her face colored a deep red. “Or are you like this because of Cedric? What did they do to you on that day?”

Harry found that he liked how she looked directly into his eyes asking such, well, direct questions. He beamed at her. “You’re acting just like someone I knew…stupidly brave, wears his emotions on his face and reckless with words. Who was that?”

“Fine! Be that way.” Ginny settled down, stubbornly going through the pretense of reading. She looked miserable, which confused Harry. He stared at her a little longer.

There was a moment of silence as everyone in the vicinity sat stalk still.

“Your eyes aren’t moving, Ginny. No one believes that you’re reading,” a familiar voice whispered from behind a row of books.

“Temper, temper, little sister!”

That was enough chatting for the day, apparently, because the previously silent librarian swooped down on them, her eyes fierce. She looked ready to howl. “This is a library! Be quiet, or get out,” the librarian said, her voice barely under screaming herself. That, Harry thought, was rather rich.

Standing up as though bored, and completely unfazed by the lecture, George asked, “Lunch then, brother?”

“Harry— come to lunch with us.” Fred invited, easy smiles and twinkling eyes, but Harry walked past them, heading for the astronomy tower.

He had a bit of napping to catch up on.

* * *

Defense class was surely going to be interesting this year, with a talkative teacher such as Lockhart. Harry remembered his shining white teeth from the train, and the way he seemed immune to Snape's general nastiness. He was just as curious about the new teacher as the others. His classmates seemed intent on ignoring his presence when he slipped into the room. He found his seat by Ron, who until that moment was speaking hurriedly to Hermione.

"Oh!" Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. "There you are. Sit down!! Class is starting."

From the other side of the room, Patil was saying, "He's so handsome....do you think he'll tell us a few personal, uh, stories?"

"Let's hope he isn't a Potter worshiper." Seamus muttered to Dean. "Or this is going to be awkward."

Harry looked back, raising an eyebrow at Seamus. He wondered if this had anything to do with his ignoring Seamus at the breakfast table.

Perhaps Lockhart would have a flare for dramatics like Snape, and would burst through the door, his colorful peacock color robes flying behind him....or maybe he was really a cat or an owl or something, waiting to impress them all as McGonnagol had that one time.

The doors opened. Harry watched the famous professor make his entrance, frowning a bit at the odd style of Wizarding robes the man wore. But then, Harry didn't care much for fashion, aside from favoring simple styles over gaudy. Anything was better than Dudley's oversized hand-me-downs, after all.

Something nagged at Harry as he examined the blond man. It wasn't his sparkling teeth or the shining blue eyes, but rather something about his manner… Maybe it was the way he talked?

Harry tilted his head as the professor began to talk, holding up one of the textbooks (as gaudy and presumably stylish as their author). He watched the professor’s arms dance, and his mouth move. Papers were being passed back. Harry looked to the blackboard to see "Pretest" written in ornate joined-up writing.

All very interesting, but it wasn’t nearly as interesting as the still-beaming-ear-to-ear professor standing at the front of the class. Harry wondered if his mouth would hurt after his first day, or if he had built up his smiling muscles sufficiently before term started.

He glanced around the room, noticing the other changes. With Quirrel, there had been the mementos from world travels, such as the dragon skeleton, and the great iron chandelier. Professor Doge from second year had a penchant for weird hats and very old photographs, and also liked to show things from his travels, though occasionally he seemed to have forgotten what came from where. Lupin had secreted Magical Creatures away in tanks, cupboards, and jars. Then there was Moody, or the imposter Crouch, who had loved a clean, neat classroom but kept Foe Glass and other whistling things in his office.

Lockhart, on the other hand, had placed grinning portraits in the odd empty space, tacked up pretty lettering to write and rewrite itself on the walls: “Famous is as famous does” was prominent, and “We know best!” courtesy of the Ministry of Magic was just under a window. Harry stared at it, wondering how Lockhart got on with the Superintendent in Pink.

“Something caught your attention, Harry?” Lockhart had snuck up on him in the time Harry took in the scene.

Harry jumped belatedly. “No.”

“Well, why don’t you show us how much you remember from the assigned readings?”

Harry looked back at the pretest. His eye was drawn to, ‘What is Professor Lockhart’s favorite color?’ He glanced up at the professor and scribbled, ‘bright colorful robes the color of pretty birds.’ He neglected to mention anything else, remembering how Lockhart was so preoccupied with himself.

From a row ahead of him, Hermione's hand shot into the air, waving almost frantically as her eyes flickered between Harry and the professor. "Excuse me, Professor?" she asked, and she finally relaxed a little when his attention turned away from Harry and onto her.

“Yes?” Lockhart asked, surprised to have his little exercise interrupted already.

“I’m sorry sir, but I thought this was from the _recommended_ readings list? Isn’t our primary text _Defensive Magical Theory?_ ” Hermione asked briskly. She had a tiny smile, though and blushed when Lockhart appraised her.

“Yes, my dear…”

“Granger. Hermione Granger.” She supplied.

“Yes Ms. Granger, it is, but I’m afraid that was the text _Superintendent Umbridge_ prescribed for us this year, and we shall certainly get our fill of it when she comes to, er, join us. For now, why don’t you focus on the materials at hand?” Lockhart drew himself up impressively.

She nodded, and everyone turned back to the parchment.

“Very good, very good!” Lockhart replied when he had collected them all. “You all have done very well indeed. Yes, I should say so!”

Harry tuned out the voice for the next while, looking instead out the classroom window. He saw a bit of cloud, white and fluffy in the wide sky. He watched its progress, thinking idly of all the things he’d do if he weren’t stuck in class instead. _Quidditch, exploring the castle with the Map, seeing what Riddle is up to…maybe finding Dumbledore…_ When a low voice startled him out of his reverie.

“Mr. Potter,” it was really a kind voice, so Harry turned his gaze back on the foppish Professor. “I’d like you to help me reenact this chapter,” he said, his teeth gleaming. “Open your copy of _Holiday with Hags,_ chapter twelve.”

Harry fumbled through the stack of books and grabbed one.

“So I said to the hag,” Lockhart’s voice boomed, “Cast down your eyes, for a wizard has arrived!” He turned to look at Harry. “Cue.”

Harry, who had been busily reading the text and skimming ahead, randomly picked a line that he liked. “But what big eyes you have,” he intoned. Compared to Lockhart, his voice was rather flat. He tried again with another line. “Best beware the Big Fool of a Monster who owns these parts. I owe my allegiance to him!” There. That was a little better. He flipped the page.

Lockhart frowned tightly. “And after the Hag retreated, muttering apologies and begging for my _shampoo,_ ” in a lower voice, he hissed, “Harry, you’re on the wrong book. Put that one down and pick up the _Holiday with Hags,_ won’t you?”

“It isn’t this one? Aren’t they the same color?”

“This one,” Lockhart handed Harry a book.

Harry looked at the page dubiously. “There’s a picture of a hag using shampoo…”

“The page before that. You play the part of the Hag. Cower in fear, and then ask for shampoo.”

Harry stared at the page blankly. “What does this have to do with Defense? Also, we already learned about lots of Dark Creatures in third year with Professor Lupin. And our second year teacher taught a lot about easy creatures too…”

“Harry, you are the hag. Please demonstrate.”

Harry looked back down to the book, trying to see how Lockhart had dealt with it. He took out his wand and said “Titillando!” in a lazy manner.

Lockhart dissolved into near hysterical giggles, and struggled to catch his breath to say the counter. Or perhaps he just didn’t know it.

“Harry!” Hermione said, aghast.

Ron snorted with laughter along with the rest of the class.

At last, Harry cast the counter jinx. “And that was how I kept the hags at bay,” Harry read, and sat down.

More chortling met that remark, and Lockhart's pinkish face turned oddly white as he stared at Harry. "Well!" He raised his eyebrows, and he looked rather like a startled owl for a moment. He seemed to be at a loss of what to say. "I see that Harry wished very much to emulate me in my travels," Lockhart gave a hearty chuckle.

Harry rather thought his smile might have a hint of malevolent intent, however, the way his gaze lingered. Then Lockhart spun around, his pretty (though very bright) robes spinning as he turned back to the lesson. Harry decided his time was better spent reading the books at random, jotting down the spell names and studying the castle's walls. They had never seemed quite so interesting before, and while listening to someone read a story book was a new experience, it was not particularly enlightening.

So he dozed off in his seat, and waited for the class to end.

* * *

The second day of classes heralded an average, though-altogether tasty breakfast. Harry even managed to not watch Tom Riddle for half of it, though this was perhaps thanks to intervention from a Stranger Owl that brought him a letter.

“Hey.” Harry said to it. “Where’s Hedwig?” He also noticed the owl drop a letter on Hermione’s lap—it was rather discreet, all things said. Harry eyed the owl and the mysterious letter, instantly more interested in Hermione’s than his own.

Hermione’s cheeks warmed under the attention, and she refused to let Harry see it. This gave Harry no choice but to open his own.

_Harry,_

_Use my mirror, you. You haven’t even opened it. Also, don’t reply by owl. Hermione mentioned the Superintendent, and if she’s a stooge for the Ministry, who knows what lows she’ll stoop to. I hope you’re done ignoring me. The mirror warms when I want to talk. You won’t notice if it’s wrapped in your socks with your Sneakoscopes._

_All my best,  
Snuffles _

_PS. Talk to your friends. Don’t bottle things up  
Burn this letter after you’ve read it. (I’ve always wanted to write that.)_

Ah. Well that explained a few things. Hermione’s letter was either from Snuffles too, or from Molly Weasley, who might still be living in the Black House. Perhaps Hermione had asked advice of Sirius?

“ _Accio_ Hermione’s letter.” Harry said clearly. Hermione squeaked, but was too late to keep it from flying out of her hands. Harry leapt from his seat, caught the flying letter, and began to make a hasty retreat.

From the Slytherin table, there was a rather whiny complaint. “We’ve got a letter thief!” That might have been Malfoy.

“Barmy, he is.”

“Off his rocker!”

Harry heard some cheering and egging-on by some of the Gryffindors (the twins): “Run Harry, run!!” and also offended, indignant cries: “Give Hermione her private correspondence back!” (Patil said, and sometimes Ron echoed the sentiment, interestingly). The letter appeared to have been Accio-ed back, but Harry had a rather firmer grip than Hermione had, and so it stayed put with only a wriggle here and there.

_Hermione,_

_Yes, I can see why you’d be worried. Dolores Umbridge_ (He skipped the rest of that paragraph, skimming for more interesting information.)

 _Whatever you do, don’t attract attention to him. That’s the worst you could do at this point. Use those research skills of yours to find out what happens in, well, you know._ (Harry, in fact, did not. He frowned in indignation at Sirius, who obviously was neglecting his explanation.)

_Borrow Harry’s mirror. We have things to discuss.  
Snuffles_

Outside of the Great Hall, Harry sighed, letting go of the letter and watching it fly back to its owner. He gave Hermione what he hoped was a pained look. “I’ll only loan you my mirror if I’m there too.” He said quietly. “You want to talk about me, don’t you?”

“For heaven’s sake, let me read it first!” Hermione huffed.

“I know for a fact that you read faster than I do. You’ve probably read it twice over by now.” Harry noted.

“What if the teachers saw that?” Ron demanded, coming up from his seat. “You could get detention. Or lose points!”

Harry privately wondered if Accio-ing letters was really against the rules. He made a noncommittal response. “Let’s go get the mirror. It wasn’t very satisfying letter, was it?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “I haven’t read either, so I wouldn’t know.” They hurried out on.

Back in the Gryffindor common room, Harry held up the pair of socks containing the mirror and sneakoscope. “Did you hear how it works?”

“Say his name.” Ron instructed. “That’s a two-way mirror, isn’t it? He was talking about it…you really should have talked to him more while we were there. Sirius, he doesn’t like being cooped up after being on the run and getting out of prison and all that. Poor bloke was going stir-crazy!”

“Yeah. I feel like that at the Durlseys.” Harry commented. “No news and all.” He gave them a significant look.

Hermione sniffed. “We already apologized and explained. Now are you going to call Sirius, or am I?”

The mirror in hand, Harry looked at it, noting his reflection and then warm colors of the common room that stretched out behind him. “Sirius Black.” He muttered. “Snuffles.” Not sure which would work. “Padfoot?”

Sirius must have known how long it would take for the owl to arrive, because his answer was almost immediate. His beaming face filled the reflective surface like a glimmering slice of light.

Without any sort of pretense, Harry began. “If you’re going to be talking about me, I want to be there when you talk. I’m handing her the mirror now.”

Sirus looked surprised at that, and Harry heard him sigh heavily even as Hermione adjusted the mirror. “I still don’t know why you’re angry with _me._ I’m as much of a prisoner of this godforsaken house here as you were there. We should be conspiratorially collaborating to escape together.”

“Nice alliteration. But conspiratorially collaborating to…what’s a c-word for escape… cut lose? Cut away?”

“Is he still doing that?” Sirius sounded vaguely aggrieved.

“Yes.” Ron informed them. “All bloody day. Apparently he and Riddle had a poetry contest in the hall, even.”

“You don’t say.” Sirius sounded supremely disinterested.

Harry, who had noticed Sirius’s lack of reaction to Riddle, looked curious. He was eager to start on that vein of the conversation as soon as Hermione was finished with her turn. He fidgeted, trying to keep hold of the slippery thought. _Ask Sirius about Riddle. Ask Sirius about Riddle._ But it darted away, as swift as a silver fish, when Hermione asked,

“Isn’t there something we can do for him? Get him a therapist for…um, traumatic experiences? I think he must have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or something. I mean, I don’t think it’s a psychosis. Don’t you think?”

“Hey. He’s not a bloody psycho.” Ron interrupted hotly.

“That’s not what it means, Ron!” Hermione scoffed, her pitch raising a fraction into what Harry termed her know-it-all voice. “Psychosis and psychotic refers to someone’s reality being permanently impaired. But Harry knows what’s real. Right?” She looked up at him suddenly. “I think you have a lot of calling cards of post-traumatic stress disorder instead. But what am I saying, none of you know what I mean!” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes before meeting Sirius’s gaze. “You just want us to pretend that nothing’s wrong. That’s not going to make it go away.”

Ron shifted again. “You don’t want people to think he’s a Nut Case, Hermione. They’d lock him up, put him in St. Mungo’s. Right now, people just think he’s…you know. Like Luna. Or lying. Or trying to get attention or something.”

 _And that’s preferable to my reality being different?_ Harry wondered silently. _How can you tell if your reality is different from someone else’s?_ His stomach flopped uncomfortably, and he shied away from a nagging thought that said, _something is different than before. Something has changed._ But he didn’t want to look at it, didn’t want to confront it just yet.

“Harry, he’s fine. He’s strong, just like his dad.” There was another awkward pause. “You’re fine, right, Harry? Just try not to stand out, hear? Don’t go making any jokes about people being owls, and for gods’ sakes, stop quoting poetry.”

Harry crossed the distance to Hermione, and peered over her shoulder.

“Maybe he should be seen by the Spell Damage healers though. Do you think it could be the Ritual?”

At this, Harry froze like a rabbit under the fierce gaze of an owl hunting. He sidestepped quickly toward the stairs leading to the fifth dormitories and picked up his pace even as Hermione made placating apologies.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry. I should have known you wouldn’t want to talk about it. Harry!” She called after him.

Harry saw Ron put one hand on her shoulder before he turned away again. He didn’t need these questions; they wouldn’t help. He found a nice spot to disappear in for a while. A little alcove, just the same size as his old cupboard, mostly hidden by a potted plant. Before he sat, he arranged it just so that its best leaves faced out, and covered as much of the space from prying eyes as possible. Harry hadn’t bothered memorizing that year’s schedule, so it didn’t bother him at all to take an unscheduled nap.

 _Sometimes, you’re just more tired than others._ He thought to himself. There would be Young dark lords to fight later in the day, and possibly another mystery to unravel. All he had to do was sit back and let it all happen.

The answers would come to him; they always did.


	6. Bloody Lines: detention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry finds more than he expected at detention with Dolores Umbridge. Snape talks to Harry. Also, Tom discovers Harry has an enchanted mirror after a conversation in the library... (Tom PoV at the end) First weekend of September.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Carroll-Dictionary:** these are words Lewis Carroll created.  
>  *Bandersnatch: a creature with a long neck, snapping jaws, and is described as ferocious and extraordinarily fast in “Hunting of the Snark” and “Through the Looking Glass”.  
> *frabjous: a combined word (portmanteau) composed of the words “fabulous” and “joyous.”  
> *frumious: combined from ‘fuming’ and ‘furious.’  
> *Jubjub bird: a fierce bird with a shrill and high voice.  
> *Snark: a purposefully-left-vague scary creature. I think it’s described as ‘unimaginable.’  
> *Whiffling: (not technically created by Carroll, but a more popular word in his time than ours.) It means to breathe unevenly, and has an undertone of “being variable and evasive” according to Carroll scholars.  
> 

**Chapter 6:** _Bloody Lines: detention_

The Superintendent in Pink was at her worst. She had cornered Harry in the hall after dinner during the first week of classes, and she had smiled her frog-like smile. “Going somewhere, Mr. Potter?” she simpered.

Harry eyed her suspiciously. “I’m going to the Gryffindor Tower.” He said resolutely.

“It’s in the opposite direction. You shouldn’t lie, my dear.”

Harry stared.

Harry must have breathed too harshly because Umbridge asked, “What was that?”

“Nothing.” Harry said, confused. He really hadn’t said anything, he thought. Perhaps he was staring aloud…

“Do you know who I am?” Her lips curled. She asked, starting to use very broad gestures and speaking in an exaggeratedly slow voice. “Do you understand me? I’ve heard from your classmates that you’ve been...illogical all week. You speak nonsense.” She nodded her head, and gave a fake smile. “Gone insane, they said?”

Harry turned red. “I can understand you perfectly, Superintendent Umbridge. I’m not an idiot, and I’m not insane.” He started to turn away.

“Manners, Mr. Potter.” She said softly. Her hand stretched out to touch him on the shoulder, and he tensed away.

“Are you telling me that you have been misbehaving on purpose?” she asked slyly, pressing her advantage. She took two tottering steps forward, and Harry imagined a squelching noise such as one a frog might make.

“I haven’t been misbehaving.” Harry replied. “I’ve been going to classes and doing my work.”

“Do not lie to me.” She offered a thin smile. “I’ve been told you are quite the cheeky little fellow. Twice now in five minutes you’ve spoken rudely and lied outright. Detention. You seem to be...quite free, so you shall serve it _now._ “

Words filled Harry’s head, teasing and ready to escape. But he knew he must not say them, not to this woman. So instead, he thought the poem, three times, to make up for being unable to give them life in the world by speaking them. _Beware the Jubjub bird*, and shun The frumious* Bandersnatch*!”_ He thought.

In so doing, the walk to Umbridge’s office seemed quite short. _So this is the lair of the Bandersnatch…_ Although she did not have a long neck, she did have goggly eyes, and while her jaw was normal, she certainly seemed ferocious and fast with her task—making Harry miserable at Hogwarts. (And possibly distracting the teachers, though that might require a more snapping jaw…)

When they came to the door, Harry noticed immediately the close proximity to the Defense Against the Dark Arts office. His gaze lingered on it, remembering the imposter Moody ( _call him Crouch Jr._ he reminded himself), and he stopped before it. Then the door opened.

A surprised (and very delightfully so) Lockhart beamed at the two of them, his brilliant turquoise robes slooshing a bit slowly with his no-longer-flamboyant movements. ”Superintendent Umbridge!” He burbled happily. “Harry! Superintendent! What a pleasant surprise.” (or had he said “frabjous* day?”)

“Excuse me Professor,” Umbridge said, oozing false politeness. ”Harry here has detention with me. Come with me, Harry. Sit there,” she gestured at a desk, which already had parchment and a quill lying atop it. “You will write lines.”

“How many?” Harry asked, acutely aware of Lockhart still standing in the doorway.

“Oh, as many as it takes for the message to sink in.”　She nodded for Harry to begin. “Use my quill, Mr. Potter,” she said, her eyes still downcast to watch Harry sit before the quill. She was reluctant to let Harry out of her sight to the extent that she would ignore a professor standing in her door.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Potter. I’m afraid _I_ have him for detention this evening as well… He hadn’t mentioned having detention with you when we scheduled it. I’m afraid I really am so busy, that I can’t afford to change the time…It is a rather demanding schedule, my position.” Ah, and there were those shiny teeth.

 _Were those teeth of the Vorpal blade, or the Jaberwocky?_ Harry wondered. In his mind’s eye, the terrible (And unimaginable) Snark warred with the Jabberwocky, each losing to the Vorpal blade. But which of them was which, and which was the worst? The Old Man, the Returned Foe, or the Secret Weapon?

“Begin writing, Mr. Potter. I think ‘I must not tell lies,’ will do nicely.”

Harry took the quill. It was a long, thin thing that looked as though it had been pulled from a particularly sour bird. The tip was very sharp, by the look of it, and the cold metal grip was thin and unwieldy. He examined it for a moment before saying, “There’s no ink.”

Lockhart too eyed the quill. His exuberant expression folded in on itself. “Excuse me, Dolores, but how long is his detention with you?” He asked.

“An hour.” Umbridge huffed. “If you will please let us get to it?” She made a little waving motion.

“Of course!” Lockhart chortled. Harry’s vision seemed to double, making the man seem making the man seem halfway gone. “I’ll just come to fetch him then. Your naughty thing, Harry! Really, aren’t you taking this bad press image too far?” He smiled winningly.

Harry’s stomach flopped. “Professor.” He nodded, wondering how to ask for help without asking.

Professor Lockhart, however, took no more notice of Harry.

Harry set the quill to the top of the parchment. He leaned forward, trying to avoid the noises of the beasts behind him. He knew Lockhart had not left because of that noise, _Snicker-snack!,_. Just as he looked up, Harry felt a sharp pain in his hand. He let out a surprised noise but thought that neither could hear him for their whiffling*.

Finally, the door closed, leaving him alone with the Bandersnatch. “What’s this? Only one line? You’ll need to pick things up, Mr. Potter.”

He peered at the quill. It dripped with red, and when he put the quill to paper again, the stinging returned. Its teeth were very sharp indeed, the Bandersnatch, though hidden behind a soft countenance.

He tried writing gingerly, without pressing so hard to the paper. It made no difference. He tried switching hands, but the result was so horrible that Umbridge made him strike it out and write again with his ‘proper hand.’ She muttered something indistinct, and Harry looked around the office while he wrote absently. Playful kittens mewled at him, and there was a plush pink cushion with unnecessary ribbons.

Harry wrote, and wrote, no longer watching as his skin healed after each line.

Umbridge smiled at him with her long thin smile, and her eyes seemed alive with malice. “We have accomplished quite a bit, haven’t we? Nicely done. Although your handwriting could use some work.” She sniffed. “I didn’t think you would come so quietly, but I suppose,” she leaned in, and Harry felt her presence like a black shadow over the room. “You know we need to help you. It hurts, doesn’t it? Pain teaches a sharp lesson, and it will stick with you.”

Harry rubbed at the sore spot on his hand, left pink from repeated injury. His thoughts focused mostly on the pain of it, and how close the monster was. His eyes flicked between her and the paper. “Professor? Can I go?”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Superintendent.” She corrected, sounding very smug indeed.

There was a knock on the door. “All finished, Superintendent? I’ll be taking Harry to my office for detention.”

Harry’s head swam. He thought he heard Umbridge continue, but the voice was distant.

_“Are you feeling woozy, Mr. Potter? I’m sorry, I should have noticed that blood loss would bring back unpleasant memories...did the Dark Lord take your blood too?” The Bandersnatch leaned in close. “Did he drink it?” Saliva glistened on the beast’s lip._

Harry jerked away. “Stop.”　His word was a command, and his magic curled around him with the word.

For a moment, she flickered before his eyes. She seemed like a ghastly worm of a monster, and then she was just the woman in pink making small-talk with Lockhart. Harry couldn’t make sense of the words she was saying, but he knew the expression. He should take it as a warning.

_“Have you lost your top?” Lockhart asked unexpectedly. “Are you in need of more tea? That should replace the blood, don’t you think, Superintendent?”_

Harry turned to look at him, but instead of the mythical monster that would have matched the Bandersnatch, he saw only the blond professor. His skin was pale, true, and his blue eyes very dull indeed, but he was human. If only just.

Harry wrinkled his brow.

“Come with me, Harry. You have another detention to serve,” the words seemed slow and full of shadows. Shadows behind his eyes, under his feet... “Thank you, Dolores. I’ll see that he’s properly punished.”

Harry stood up, barely remembering to bring what few things he’d had when the Superintendent cornered him. He left the office, feeling eyes on his back the entire way.

“Harry, Harry.” Lockhart sighed dramatically as he closed the door to the Defense Against Dark Arts office. Lockhart didn’t immediately continue, giving Harry a chance to look around.

It was much changed from when Crouch-Moody had occupied it. There were more portraits than the space ought to comfortably allow, as well as a number of decorative awards with spidery writing. Many faces of Lockhart grinned and winked at the occupants, offering sage Ministry-Sanctioned Advice. The office seemed unusually cold, though, which struck Harry as odd. Someone like Lockhart, he would have thought, would have wanted luxuries, he felt. He looked up, wondering what the portraits and plaques could be hiding.

“Well?” Lockhart said finally. “What do you have to say for yourself?” Oddly, Lockhart’s words were jumbled. He also seemed to be saying (at the same time, even), _“Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun the frumious Bandersnatch!”_

“She made me write lines, sir.” Harry mumbled. He rubbed the spot where Wormtail had cut him, trying to massage out the ache which started there and ended in his fingertips.

Lockhart gave a sympathetic chuckle. “Oh, I can see that the Superintendent isn’t popular among you students, but Harry, Harry, Harry. Just because I was there to offer punishment of my own this time doesn’t mean you can brazenly cast magic at a professor. Superintendent. You’re lucky she thought it was accidental magic.”

What was he talking about? Harry went over the events that happened in the detention, trying to separate them.

Lockhart began to talk in a light and arrogant manner, going on about the trials of fame, but Harry was too busy looking at his shadow. Would it be like Peter Pan, and be sewn to his foot?

“There’s the stack there, Harry. Go ahead and get started.”

Harry eyed the large stack of envelopes and finally said, “So I’m to address your fan mail.”

“Famous is as famous does!” Lockhart quipped, and told Harry to set to work without another word.

The time passed slowly. Earlier that summer, Harry had watched the twins casting charms on quills, and he’d taken their technique and the incantation to memory. It came in handy now, with Lockhart more than willing to chatter happily and ignore Harry’s use of the time. So Harry let his quill do most of the work, occasionally nudging it when the thing started to write on the wrong surface. After some time, Lockhart had dinner brought in for them, though Harry only nibbled on a sandwich.

Finally, Lockhart said, “That will be all for tonight. Don’t expect a treat like this every time you get a detention! Off to bed with you now, and mind you go straight to your dormitory.”

“Good night, professor.” Harry’s vision was mostly back to normal after the monotony of overseeing letter addresses. Although he had watched both Lockhart and his shadow, nothing amiss was easily seen.

Harry made his way back to Gryffindor tower.

* * *

o0o0o0o

The following day, Harry went to the corridors sooner than usual. The morning light was soft on the castle walls, and Harry thought he’d find a place to be himself. A place away from all the students and teachers, where his thoughts could be his own.

“You’re out early,” one of the paintings said to him.

“Yes.” Harry replied, and moved on without further comment.

He thought of going to the Owlery, but decided against it. Sending an early letter was hardly unusual, and if he wanted to avoid people, somewhere else would be better.

“Going somewhere?” a familiar voice sneered.

“It isn’t time for classes.” Harry replied, his stubborn streak cropping up. “I can go anywhere I like.”

“Can you?” Snape glided into view. He looked down his big nose directly at Harry.

Harry wavered, honestly not knowing if he was rule-breaking or not.

Snape pressed his advantage. “You’ve had detention with both the Superintendent and Lockhart.” He stepped into Harry’s path to block an easy escape. “Why?”

“Well.” Harry remarked. “Umbridge gave me detention first, but then to get me out, I think, Lockhart said that he’d given me a detention first. There was a scheduling issue, and I missed dinner.” All true, even. He felt particularly pleased at that—Snape would be annoyed, but Harry was doing no wrong.

“Why did Umbridge give you detention?”

“She said I was a liar.” Harry’s eyes narrowed.

“You haven’t been telling her about the Dark Lord, have you?” Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. “How many times must we tell you? Those who will listen already have heard. You won’t be converting Fudge’s lapdog with your tales.”

“They aren’t tales.” Harry insisted. “But you wouldn’t know, since you weren’t there. Not much of a spy, are you?”

Snape flushed with anger. “You have no idea.”

“Apparently.” Harry agreed wryly, though Snape didn’t seem to understand the humor. “Are we done?”

Snape snorted and nodded sharply. He started to turn away.

Harry remembered his question with sudden clarity, and it burst out of his lips. “You knew, didn’t you?” He asked. “That Voldemort’s come to Hogwarts.”

“I don’t follow.” Snape crossed his arms as he turned back toward the boy.

“Was it really Dumbledore who set the forgetfulness, or was it really Voldemort?”

“Have some sense!” Snape hissed, alarm and anger blurring in the lines of his mouth. He looked agitated for a moment before smoothing his features. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Which is it?” Harry demanded. “Have sense or forget? You can’t have it both ways.”

At that, Snape frowned more pronouncedly, and his harsh look froze. Some gears seemed to be whirring in his head, and it was only polite that Harry give him a chance to sort through the mess so he wouldn't get overheated. “How long have you…suspected the Dark Lord of infiltrating these halls?”

It wasn’t the question Harry was expecting. “Since the first night.”

“And who have you told?”

“Ron. Hermione. Ginny. And the young Dark Lord himself, but he mostly avoids me.”

Snape’s expression changed again, relaxing just a bit. He mustered a jeering laugh at the last moment, and said, “Ah. Back to that daydream, are you?”

“Riddle hasn’t been here for that long.” Harry insisted. “Everyone just _thinks_ he has. It’s the spell, that much I know. But I don’t think Dumbledore did it. So, what do—”

“You have never confided in me before.” Snape interrupted. “Why the sudden urge to have this…heart-to-heart?”

“You weren’t at the graveyard.” Harry replied.

Snape sighed and did something strange with his wand. An apple appeared in one hand, and something smoking in a beaker held in the other. Snape asked, “Which is real?”

Harry’s eyebrows flew into his hair. “Why?”

“Which is real, Mr. Potter?” Snape insisted.

Harry waved a hand through the smoke of the one and jabbed the other. “You summoned an apple from the kitchens, and that looks like Pepper-Up potion.”

“Would you drink it?” Snape extended the hand. There was no handy _drink me_ attached.

“No.” Harry backed up quickly. “It might not be. You might be a double spy.”

“Would you eat it?” Snape’s lips twitched.

“Don’t eat strange foods.” Harry said very quickly, thinking of second year and the potioned cupcakes that put Crabbe and Goyle to sleep for the duration of their Polyjuice venture.

“Is it real?” Snape asked again, cryptically. “ _Could_ you eat it?”

“…yes.” Harry replied. “But I won’t.”

“Quite.” Snape commented irritably. “But _neither_ are real.” He dropped them both, but instead of shattering or bouncing, they vanished without a sound.

“But I—”

“You merely assumed the apple had presence.” Snape said. “You clearly do not possess enough logic to deduce whether or not the Dark Lord is here. Leave Riddle out of your games, and concentrate on your classwork.”

With that unhelpful suggestion, Harry took a few steps further back. “That test is rubbish. You don’t know any better than I do. I’ll find him.” He paused reflectively. “But after breakfast. And after sufficient alone-time. But definitely after that.”

Snape merely watched him go.

* * *

o0o0o0o

(Tom)

All around me students go in and out of the stacks like so many ants.

I hold my breath as footsteps come near where I browse, half afraid and half hoping that the spell will fail, that they will see me for what I am. But how could they know, or understand, when even I have my doubts? Voldemort’s orders _my orders_ , my own plans had not taken such accepting, blatant cooperation into account.

But as always, the footsteps veered away, and none approached. Frustrated or bored, their conversation seemed inanely happy, petty even. These young children, in the great castle to study magic, and not a one of them appreciated it.

I could continue pouring over ancient ritual books, potions and stories filled with cryptic hints. It seemed in a few scant days I had become a regular fixture in the library; completely ignorable and not worth even looking at. I despised that fact, even as I utilized it.

“Did you have Umbridge in your class today? I can’t believe she interrupted Flitwick during his lecture! It was funny at first, but then she started saying stuff about ‘not ministry approved this,’ and ‘you ought to know better about that’, and treating us like we’re all primary students. It was horrible.” One girl said, and I spied a glimpse of her through a gap in the books.

Her companion wasn’t so interested, though, and so gave only a vague comment that I didn’t care to listen to. Something about the foul nature of the toad, no doubt.

“She’s only staying ‘till midweek, right? Good riddance.” The girl said.

The other student, a boy with too-short robes gave an odd little cough.

I found my eyes stalled on the words before me, barely focusing on the titles. _Magic in the Highlands: a visitor’s guide_ didn’t look worth the paper it was printed on. My hands brushed the spines of nearby books, searching for one of some real worth, but then stalled as the boy began to speak:

“I was thinking though... all those things in the paper, they don’t add up, right? He can’t be the Boy Who Lies if there are really people.... you know....” he lowered his voice, “disappearing?”

The girl dropped a book and made a small squeaking noise. “There’s no proof...and none of those stories are printed in the paper!”

“Yeah, erm, yeah. You’re right. My older brother was probably just trying to take the mickey outta me.” He gave a strained laugh. “No way people are _really_ disappearing...”

Their voices faded as they went down the aisle, and I couldn’t catch more of the conversation. As enlightening as it was, it didn’t seem very likely that they’d know anything about the outside. Communication was strained-- even for me.

I moved away from the local magic section, and headed back to the shelves dealing with ritual magic. Again. _There must be something I can use…something to shed some light on the mysterious ritual that took place at the end of last year._ The goal was simply to give us a new body, wasn’t it? But why, then, did I have no memory of it, and why was Harry Potter so very… fragile.

Frustrated, I tapped my fingers against the wood of the shelf.

Harry Potter...the boy the entire school was thinking about, but no one will quite believe. His state of mind is an entirely unprecedented complication, and so he offered an element of random accident (happenstance?) that not even I could predict.

I paused as gold foil caught the light-- a book embossed and likely engraved with precious inks from long ago. The title was whimsical, though, and like the area I’d just abandoned, seemed too specific to be of any use. _Fairy Tales and other Nonsense Stories_ I lingered, nevertheless.

“What are you doing?”

I froze. It was Potter.

The simple question, so carefully worded was like trying to interpret a trail of breadcrumbs when he spoke so very little. “Is that a book on fairy tales?” Harry breathed, his voice hitching oddly.

I watched him from the corner of my eye. “It is.”

“What are you reading fairy tales for?” He asked curiously, and I took the opening to take a step back. By doing so, I noticed the state of his school robes, and his glasses. However, the way he shifted from foot to foot was more telling.

“Have you just come in from the _grounds?_ ” I felt my lip curl. “You’re dirty.”

Harry didn’t turn his head to look at me, still fixated on the book of fairy tales. “I just had Herbology...” he mumbled, an obvious lie as it was the weekend. “Did you know you can see the unseen and things better from the corner of your eye? I think I read that in a story about fox women in Japan... . and there's ointment (*1) involved in some of them. But you look just the same no matter how I look at you... you must be very clever to manage that.”

I looked at the boy without comment, and decided that the best course of action was walking to the library table, where my more common school books lay. He couldn’t very well continue the conversation right in front of the librarian.

Harry didn’t notice though, either by happy coincidence or by design, he managed to block my path. “Dumbledore didn’t cast the spell.” He said decisively.

So maybe he _would_ continue the conversation in front of the librarian. It could be that the safety precautions of the curse (the memory charm, if I was to be precise) wouldn’t accommodate for idiot fey children. I decided to ignore his comment. “You should clean up before entering the library. You look like riffraff off the street.”

“Dumbledore wouldn't! He wouldn't, not with you being the young Voldemort.” Harry paced back to the bookshelf, and dislodged the book of fairy tales. “Does it have Tom Tit Tot? (*2)” He leafed through the pages, doubtlessly leaving dirty fingerprints all over it.

I stared at him, wondering if this was just another way for him to show his disdain, or if this was an example of how very addled he was. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Your name is secret too.” Harry muttered. “I was wondering how the girl in the story figured it out-- and she had power over Tom Tit Tot when she knew it.” He flashed a smile, and I felt a jolt of unease.

Old anger and frustration with my birth name rolled around in my stomach. I kept my face expressionless, uninterested, and I made no word to contradict him.

“ _Her husband came across That which was small and black, and singing to itself 'Name me, name me not, Who'll guess it's Tom-Tit-Tot.'_ It was chance and stupidity of That who revealed his own name...” Harry met my gaze. “Voldemort will be his own undoing.” He said simply, as though it needed no more explanation than that-- chance and stupidity.

“So your luck will see you through?” I controlled the smile that crept up on me, and something itched to grab his hand, to bend the fingers in until the bones creaked and blood ran. “I don't see what that has to do with me.”

Harry shrugged. “You haven't done anything.” He said simply. “So you must be part of the stupidity, I think, rather than the pride... Maybe you’re that bit that'll lead Voldemort to ruin. Do you need this back?” He gestured at the book.

“Thank you.” I accepted the book, making note to take the dirt from it later. Maybe some tiny bit of his essence could be gathered from the dust and oil accumulated from his hands, and I would discover something about the Boy Who Went Mad. At this point, anything would be better than what I had.

Harry shifted again now that his book was gone, and I wondered what the rest of the student population made of him. To the untrained eye, it probably looked as though his attention wandered, that he was bored with the world around him. They might even see his strange words as 'attention seeking,' or some such rot. I wondered if they noticed his tendency to fixate on things, the way his mind latched on and would not let go....

I pulled out a quill from my bag, and uncurled a bit of parchment I had been taking notes on. “I heard you stole a letter from Hermione.” I said it carefully, as though I heard the information from some second hand source. Like I hadn't been in the hallway, avoiding the students and staff as much as any fugitive. “You mentioned something interesting...”

Harry looked up, and his green eyes sparkled just as much as the gold leaf on the book’s spine had. A smile quirked his lips. “It wasn't much of a letter. What's it to you?” While my eyes were distracted by the baffling expression and vague words, one of his hands took hold of the book again.

I let him tug our hands out and up, so that the book lay between us. Then I tilted my head, and focused on a first year spell to make it float, then removed my hands before his grimy fingers could incriminate me as well. “You'll get it dirty.” I noted. “Hermione wasn't pleased,” I suggested, hoping he'd continue the conversation and not immediately digress to another fairy tale.

“Hermione likes rules and logic.” Harry said decisively. “Why are you giving me your book?”

“I was hoping to get the story straight,” I muttered, trying to sound chagrined. I hoped he'd see the 'poor loner' that everyone else seemed to see, that the memory charm would suddenly work wonders on him.

“Keep your mind moving, Riddle, or you’ll be trapped beneath the water and drown. Though I think you’d make a nice flower.” Harry said conversationally, so utterly out of context and ripe with meaning just lurking beneath his words.

Something clicked into place. His words had a double meaning, and they only just started to make sense: Water, flower, drowning, warning. The facts whirled around my thoughts, and I remembered an old Greek myth. _Narcissus,(*3) who would have drowned after longing for his own reflection in water. Had he not been changed to a flower, Narcissus’s mirror would be a watery grave._ From that, I worked out the other meaning, the one that applied here and now.

Harry Potter had a bloody mirror, likely enchanted. He was using it for something that might be dangerous, wasn’t he? I knew in that instant that it had to be _mine._

But first, I had to check—was he really talking about mirrors? I began, “Some reflections are dangerous. Not only truth can hide in mirrors.”

Sure enough, his attention snapped back on me. “I guess.” Harry said guardedly, and his hands clenched. I imagined him pulling at restraints with those same long fingers, the nails broken and bleeding. Wouldn’t that be something?

“You think I don’t belong.” I muttered, stilling the smile that threatened my composure. “Why is that?”

“You've never been here before. You can't expect me to have forgotten all that.”

Harry Potter was ever unaffected by the wards, sigils, and charms driven deep into my flesh and bones. “I’ve been here since your second year.” I reminded him lightly, breathing out the vestiges of another memory charm.

“If that were true,” Harry dropped his gaze and flipped a few pages in the heavy anthology, “you ought to tell me your version of it.”

“The Chambers of Secrets.” I said slowly. “The youngest Weasley was captured, but you slew the beast, and so everyone was happy.”

“Wrong.” He glared. “If you were really there, you’d have been everyone’s guess. But it was Malfoy and me, wasn’t it?”

I shrugged. “People didn’t know my name meant anything until the end.” It was simple guesswork, but I couldn’t let on just yet how little I knew. What little information I’d been trusted with.

His shoulders slumped. It was true, and he knew it. It would’ve cut a sharper edge if he realized how easily I played him, but for now he only leaned against the books. I imagined his heart racing, his breathes coming ragged, and how hot his blood would run.

“You ought to stop talking about me like that. Also about the Dark Lord. They’ll only assume the worst of you if you continue.” I tried to mask the mockery as kind advice, but it came out hard as nails.

“Why are you here?” he asked again.

“To learn magic. To be someone—not the Dark Lord, but someone better.” _Let him believe that._ The words tasted bitter, even as a half-formed notion to trick the Boy Who Lived into believing that I could be salvaged. But in some small sense, it was true. I do want to be better—not defeated, more than a wraith, and commanding more than a paltry sum of Death Eaters.

“You don’t know.” Potter replied slowly. “That’s why Dumbledore’s not throwing you out.” Interesting, how he refused to implement Dumbledore as the caster of the memory charm, even now. “He thinks you’re…” but he trailed off, swallowing the words.

I had to wonder at the boy. His leaps in logic were barely discernible, but he landed so close to what I _didn’t_ want him to know. “You can’t condemn the blood of children.” I quipped, and nodded at the fat tome still in his hands. “Any book of fairy tales will tell you: children are clever, quick, and innocent.”

Harry nodded dubiously before freezing. “That’s not true. Child Roland (*4) is violent.” He argued. Gryffindors.

“Yes. Well. Goodbye Harry. I don’t have any more time to waste.” I pushed past him and muttered, “Tell me your fairy tale some other day.”

Harry watched me go, and I went to plan. He’d given me much to think about, the mirror to say the least. Then a thought struck me. It was worth a shot—and I doubted the mirror would go careening out of his dormitory window without someone realizing it. But here in the library, no one would be the wiser…

 _Accio._ I thought, and sure enough, something silvery and heavy poked out of Potter’s abandoned school bag. The mirror. I held out my hands to catch it and smiled.

Harry would never know what hit him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *1 The Fairy Ointment. In some versions, a gentleman brings a midwife to care for his wife and child, asking her to put ointment on the child's eyes, but not his own, and not the wife's. By some circumstance (it changes with the telling), she puts ointment on her own eyes and discovers that she is in a Fairy Mound, and has been caring for a fairy child. She and the wife had been seeing an illusion for their own benefit. The gentleman returns, and by some circumstance, she reveals herself to have betrayed his promise, and she is blinded. Sometimes her eye is put out, and sometimes she can no longer see out of that eye anymore.
> 
> *2 Tom Tit Tot, with another version called Rumpelstiltskin. A woman is singing about how her daughter ate five pies in market one day when the King happens by. He asks her to repeat herself, but being much embarrassed, she changes the words to, "My daughter has spun five skeins today," instead. Impressed, the King offers to marry her if she will complete five skeins everyday for the last month of the year. They are married. The girl cannot complete this task, so she begins to cry and a little black thing (Tom Tit Tot/Rumpelstiltskin) hears her. It offers to do the task for her, and gives her one month to guess its name- three guesses a day. By chance, her husband overhears the silly/creepy creature singing its name in the woods, and tells his wife what he heard. She is spared.
> 
> *3 Greek Mythology of Narcissus. There are many versions of this story. Narcissus is a very beautiful young man who refuses the advances of all of his suitors. One day, he is in the woods and sees his own reflection in the water. (In some versions, the nymph Echo is involved.) He becomes entranced with himself (in some versions, he falls in love with the youth in the water), and he wastes away there by the riverside. By the nymphs (or by Apollo, though Apollo is more famous for Hyacinthe) changes the boy into a flower that grows by water.
> 
> *4 Childe Rowlande, see chapter 8 for the full note, but know that Childe Rowland killed everyone he met in Elfland. So not innocent.


	7. Creatures, Fairy Tales, and Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fifth year students study a wild kelpie in the Care of Magical Creatures. Draco is puzzled, but this doesn't keep him from taunting Harry. 
> 
> Harry is distracted and bewitched by fairy tales. Tom listens to the Tale of Second Year. 
> 
> Second week of classes, mid September.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feb. 26 is Fairy Tale day, so you got a fairy tale. Yaay. ♥

**Chapter 7:** Creatures, Fairy Tales, and Dreams

Harry woke up with a start. He’d dreamed of a mix of Fairy Tales and the last week’s events, and it all wound up tangled in his head. It was, he realized belatedly, Sunday, and that meant—

“Where were you for Quidditch tryouts?” Ron demanded once he realized Harry was awake. “Did you have detention _again?_ ”

Harry rubbed at his eyes. “Yes, I had detention... Quidditch. What about Quidditch?” A curly, worried feeling burbled in his stomach. Had he missed a game? Been kicked off? “Did I miss practice?”

“Practice? You missed tryouts!” Ron yelled. “How _could_ you?”

Harry slowly got out of bed. He considered changing, but decided Ron needed to talk right now, so taking the time to find his weekend clothes would probably not be appreciated. “Something happened.” He guessed.

“I tried out.” Ron corrected. “And you weren’t there!”

“Oh.” Harry paused. “But I’m Seeker, not captain. Why does my not being there--”

“Support, Harry. We’ve been supporting you for weeks now. You could have returned the favor.” Ron huffed. Then his expression got complicated; it went from annoyed and disappointed to slightly wary and anxious, but Harry couldn’t guess why. “Sorry.”

“....you probably did fine.” Harry ventured. “Do you want to go flying after breakfast?”

“Harry, we have Care of Magical Creatures after breakfast.” Ron frowned.  
“Isn’t it the weekend?” Harry frowned, trying to make sense of this new information.

“No,” Ron looked at him oddly, “But I suppose that’s why we couldn’t find you all weekend... were you in the classrooms?” Ron’s expression looked both pained and concerned. Perhaps even a little guilty-- had he enjoyed the alone time as much as Harry had, then?

“So. It’s Monday. Hmmm.” Harry puzzled through this revelation.

“Uuuh, let’s go to breakfast.” Ron suggested.

The whole affair began rather quietly at the Gryffindor table. Ron and Angelina, along with a few unfamiliar faces talked Quidditch, and Hermione had her nose in a book.

“Harry!” Someone called out. A female someone that sounded a bit exasperated, which wasn’t exactly a new thing. He focused on the words. “...for five minutes now. Why weren’t you at tryouts?” Angelina demanded.

Ron nudged him, leaning in quietly and saying, “She’s been channeling Wood all morning. Wish you’d been there to see tryouts.”

“I thought it was a school day... and I may have been in detention, if it was just before dinner...” Harry shrugged.

Hermione’s brow furrowed as she studied Harry. “Detention? Did you say school day, Harry?”

Just as Angelina fumed, “I can’t believe it! You used to always have everything together for a game!”

“Are you sure you can handle Quidditch?” Hermione asked softly, her hands fluttering at her side.

Ron bristled at this, and proceeded to glare at the lot of them. “Harry lives for flying. He doesn’t _want_ off the team, he just...” He paused awkwardly, “...er. Umbridge. You know.”

Harry let his eyes flicker from one face to the next, suddenly wondering what it was he could say to convince his friends (and captain) of anything. Harry drank his pumpkin juice. “I do like flying...and finding the snitch is a game all in itself...”

Angelina rounded on him. “We’ve all seen you fly, and we know you like flying. What I’m asking, Harry Potter, is if you have the commitment required to make a brilliant team. Or are you too absorbed in other things?” Her expression was more serious than Harry had ever seen it, but he kept thinking that her eyebrows looked a little like they were wandering up and down with her emotional speech. “We don’t need you if you can’t concentrate, even if you’re the best bloody player at the school.”

Ron paled at that. He looked at Harry helplessly, and then back to Angelina. He turned to Hermione next, but still seemed at a loss. “Harry?” He settled on, finally.

“I’m concentrating on Voldemort, and Riddle mostly,” Harry admitted. He took a bite of his breakfast. “I think that’s best, really... but if I were up in the sky, and a snitch were flying, and I were seeking, I think I’d focus on the snitch. It’s just more fun that way.”

Ron buried his face in his hands. “Harry, that’s not very comforting.”

.

.

.

 

Care of Magical Creatures met on the grounds before the Forbidden Forest as always, but Hagrid’s large form was nowhere in sight.

“Let’s begin, shall we?” A woman said. Harry vaguely remembered her name was Grubby-Planks or something similar.

“Today’s lesson shall begin with a bit of revising. Who can tell me what a Kelpie is?”

“A shape shifter who tempts people into the water to drown and eat them,” Seamus answered with a shiver.

 _“‘His hour had come. --an’ sae ye see, the prophecy o’ the kelpie availed naething,’”_ Harry muttered under his breath, recalling a story about a Kelpie.

Hermione looked at him sharply, but didn’t say anything. Instead, she looked back at the teacher and added swiftly, “The Loch Ness Monster is said to be a very large Kelpie.” She went on at length.

“Yes, very good, Finnigan, Granger. 10 points to Gryffindor! Today, we will observe the Kellpie which has made its way to our own lake.” She looked up and smiled at the children. “Very good opportunity. Between myself, the Merpeople and the Giant Squid, we should encounter no problems. Excellent opportunity.”

There was some muttering at the back of the group, and from the Slytherin side, Harry thought he spied a platinum-blond head.

“Professor.” Malfoy began with a funny expression, “are you sure this is safe? Kelpies can drag a man in if they don’t like him.”

“Perfectly safe, Mr. Malfoy. This class is meant to teach you about the care of Magical Creatures, and teach you I shall! Many houses which can manage strong a Placement Charm keep relatively tame Kelpies, so I think it’s best for all of you to remember what you learn here. If we can catch it, we will practice feeding and grooming it. Those who get along with it may even try riding it for short distances.”

“If it’s a malevolent Kelpie, having its bridle isn’t much help.” Ron shrugged. “But if we’re only watching.”

“Those of you who have unfortunate experiences with... temperamental... creatures will be permitted to borrow these Omnioculars.” The professor amended, hovering a box of the devices. There was a brief rush for the box, students’ hands grasping at the pairs. The box was emptied even as she explained how to use them. “Be sure to record what you see. If the Kelpie leaves without being captured, we will use the Omnioculars in the other classes,” she instructed.

Harry grinned and asked Ron, “Do you want a pair?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Aren’t any left, now are there?”

Harry pulled out his wand and looked up in the direction of the Gryffindor tower. He imagined the window open (which it often was, as he thought it a useful opportunity), and said in a clear voice the opening charm (in case the window wasn’t in fact open, and then twice more to open their trunks), followed then with, “ _Accio Omnioculars_ , Harry’s and Ron’s.” He waited absently for them to zoom forward while the rest of the class walked toward the lake. A minute or two later, the two sparkling devices were within his reach, and he jumped up to catch them.

As he ran back to the group, he smiled to himself, and handed the pairs over to Ron and Hermione, who was saying, “Professor Grubbly-Plank has gone to the lake side.” She was then distracted by the cool device that Harry poked her with.

“These are mine.” Harry said. “Record stuff. I’d have given you yours, but I don’t know if you brought them. You always pack your trunk full of books…”

Hermione swatted his hand even as she took the Omnioculars, saying, “Quiet! Professor Grubbly-Plank is talking to the Merpeople.” She said excitedly.

“Where’d you get those?” a loud voice interrupted, close enough to Harry’s ear that he had to pay attention to it. Upon further observation, he realized it was Malfoy, so Harry turned away with a roll of his eyes. Malfoy was clutching an older pair of Omnioculars, and with white-knuckled force. “Yours look better than these. Trade.” He demanded.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “No. They probably use the same spell. And if you’ve got your own Omnioculars, just Accio them yourself. These are ours.”

Harry turned back to watch the Merpeople. _How hard would it be to learn Mermish?_ he wondered.

Malfoy was saying something obnoxious-- he could just tell by the tone... Harry felt his irritation rising. “Malfoy, go. Away. I’m trying to listen to Mermish and then watch the Kelpie. I don’t want to Observe The Local Malfoy in the Wild.”

“ _What?_ “ Malfoy exploded.

Ron laughed. “Didn’t you hear? Go away.”

Malfoy shook his head, disbelieving. “What’s wrong with you, Potter?” he settled on. His brow furrowed, and shook his head in confused disbelief. “They said you were nutters, but--”

Ron threw himself at Malfoy, knocking him to the ground. “You and your horrible Death Eater father are responsible for it, you git! Just go away! Harry’s fine. Just keep out of this.” Ron was flushed a deep pink, anger making even his ears color.

Harry stared, watching Ron still clutching Malfoy’s collar, and then went back to watching the lake. “The Kelpie is standing in plain view. Oh, look, Professor Grubbly-Plank is admiring him. Do you think-- oh no, looks like it...”

Hermione zoomed with her Omnioculars, and Ron let up from Malfoy, while the latter attempted to catch his breath. Hermione was the first to say, “Is she going to ride it?”

Harry strode closer, heedless of his friend’s hesitation, and of the fact that he had no real expertise with Kelpies. Being the only one without Omnioculars, he felt that one, he needed to get closer, and two, he might be able to help her.

The Professor smiled at the pretty creature (currently taking the shape of a lovely horse), and she started to reach for its main. She was about to touch it in earnest when Harry realized how the eyes glared and the teeth glinted. His heart in his throat, Harry leaped forward—

\--just as the beast reared, and Grubbly-Plank went headlong into the water, her ankle having been pulled by a helpful Merperson.

Harry settled back on his feet, deciding that she didn’t need rescuing after all.  
The Kelpie snickered.

From the shallows of the lake, Grubbly-Plank laughed as well. “Oh, you nearly got me there, you wily horse.” She shook her finger at the creature. “All right, all right, I’m fine. Students, you may count this as an example of a human being tempted by a Kelpie-- were I to ride him,” the Kelpie interrupted with a whinny. “He may attempt to drown me. However, should I shake off the glamour even from his back, I still have a chance for fresh air. Step lively now, and let’s have another go.”

Harry looked at the Kelpie, edging closer than the rest of the students would. As a result, he got quite the fine view when the Kelpie did a silly little dance and flashed its teeth-like bone plate again.

From a good ways behind, Draco called, “Potter was about to be taken in by the glamour as well. What an idiot!”

“I was not. I don’t think it can direct it’s glamour on more than one person at once. Anyone want to test that?” Harry gestured toward the lake and the Kelpie.

Ron was at his side faster than he thought possible for the gawky redhead. “Nope. Nobody wants to test that.”

Harry hummed with disappointment.

Malfoy laughed in a ‘I can’t believe it,’ sort of way, but he said, “I knew he was mad.”

“Just reckless.” Harry corrected him.

Malfoy carefully positioned himself out of Ron’s reach (though to be fair, Ron was more concentrated on keeping Harry within tackling distance, not Malfoy), and muttered something about, “What are we supposed to do with him?” in an uncomfortable sort of tone that bordered on glee and horror.

Harry watched as the professor cast the Placement Charm, and a misty white rope of light unfolded before the Kelpie.

The Kelpie rose on its hind legs and took for the center of the lake. In the water, it seemed unable to decide on what its lower half should look like-- a large and powerful fish tail, slender horse legs, or chubby feet with a long powerful otter tale. The professor’s Placement Charm raced too and fro, seeking to tie a bridle of white mist over the Kelpie.

Harry listened again for the incantation, and glanced at Ron to make sure he was recording with the Omnioculars. He was, so Harry took another step forward. The Kelpie glanced toward Harry, but was distracted by the agile movement of the charm. He almost thought it was still going farther into the lake, but no, it was looping back. Harry felt his jaw set, his adrenalin rise. This would be just like Buckbeack... _except hopefully without a name change and a criminal charge._

He whistled softly, a tune he thought Seamus sang sometimes, and raised an eyebrow at the Kelpie. Two steps and a skittering jump, and he was knee deep in water, petting its nose.

Professor Grubbly-Plank gave a slightly startled breath, and refocused her concentration on the bridle. She seemed to do something to set it further, and then she offered Harry a warm smile. “Off with you then! Be back soon.” She said.

Harry grinned into the Kelpie’s mane and took a good look at it. The Kelpie’s back was damp, its fur something between the faintly oily pelt of an otter, and coarse horse hair. Water dripped around him, and the Kelpie ran at his encouragement. Harry let it. The water rippled beneath the Kelpie’s Fish-Tail/Horse legs. Its fluid shape shifting did nothing to slow them down-- if anything, it seemed to make its progress faster. Moments passed.

Before him, the giant squid threw up a tentacle, and the Kelpie whinnied in irritation. Harry glanced down to see that its eyes were still deep red, rather than the stormy blue it showed after the Placement Charm formed a bridle. Harry felt the adrenaline course through his limbs again, and raised his wand.

He cast the Placement Charm fluidly, standing from his seat and aiming easily, but ready to jump off it if things didn’t go as he wanted. He was vaguely curious of the result of the charm that he’d only heard twice now, and watched as the Kelpie turned its head and elongated its neck to look at him.

“Hi.” He said.

The Kelpie said nothing, but its eyes changed back to blue again.

“Let’s go back to shore.” Harry suggested, and patted it on the side. The Kelpie obliged. Harry let the Kelpie set him down on the shore, and patted it affectionately before saying, “Anyone else want a go?”

Malfoy was the only one who laughed. He seemed a bit hysterical, to be honest. Harry shrugged, and let class continue.

* * *

o0o0o0o0o

Luna Lovegood was singing under her breath, slowly combing through the leaves in a tree. She was securely positioned between the branches, her robes pushed up around her knees. Harry stood below her tree, looking on the ground.

Without looking away from her work, she called down to him, “Hello Harry Potter.”

Harry looked up and noticed that there was a leaf in her hair. He said so, and looked again at the trunk of the tree.

“I heard you ran on water today.” She said, and did nothing to remove the leaf.

Harry shrugged. “What are you looking for?”

“Silkworms.” She held up a small bag. “I’ve discovered a magical breed of them here in the forest, and I’m thinking of studying them closer...”

“That sounds good.” Harry agreed, and picked up a rock. “Do they live on the ground as well?”

“No,” she said serenely, “and I think you are rather preoccupied by your own search. What are you looking for?”

“A piece of my mirror...I couldn’t find it...” Harry paused, and considered the trees anew. “Did you see any trees with silver leaves, golden leaves or diamonds? Or hear the sound of the leaves being snapped off?”

Luna considered this long and hard. Her hands paused in her search for silkworms, and her mouth pressed into a line of concentration. Finally, she said, “No, I haven’t. Have you tried summoning it?”

“I did, but it’s like there’s an anti-summoning charm on it...” Harry frowned. “I didn’t put it there. The anti-summoning charm, I mean.”

Luna nodded and tilted her head in contemplation. “I suppose something could have taken it...I usually suspect the Nargles, but perhaps it’s not the case.”

Harry looked up again with interest. “Nargles?”

"Mischievous thieves who often live in mistletoe." She supplied. "But I've never known them to steal mirrors... If I see your mirror, I'll return it to you. If you see a silkworm, make sure it eats plenty of mulberry leaves."

"Are there mulberry leaves in the forest?" Harry asked vaguely, wondering what a mulberry leaf looked like.

"Oh, lots. Just by the Thestrals... I'll show you sometime if you like."

Harry stopped, thinking that today really was a day for magical creatures. "Thestrals?"

"The beautiful creatures who pull the carriages from the train." Luna supplied. "Though most people can't see them..." Her voice was soft and lilting, barely carrying over the sound of students passing through the nearby corridor.

Harry hummed with interest, and resolved to look up both Thestrals and Nargles later. In the meanwhile, he walked to the next tree.

"There's Riddle..." Luna murmured.

Sure enough, there was another pair of shoes next to Harry and Luna's tree. "What are you doing crouching on the ground, Potter? You're getting filthy."

"Hello Riddle." Harry greeted, straightening to his full height.

"I've been hearing about you and the Kelpie all morning." Riddle said absently, and he looked up slowly to where Luna was examining her leaves.

Harry blinked. Talking to his arch nemesis about school lessons was something new. Unless you counted False-Moody-Crouch and Quirrel, (which he didn't.) "And?"

"You were going to tell me a fairy tale. It's my free period, so..." he trailed off, seeming to consider Luna in her tree, and Harry on the ground. "What are you two doing?"

Luna called quietly, "Hello Tom Riddle." much as she had to Harry. She looked down at him with wide blue eyes, and her face looked pixie-like in the light. "I'm looking for magical silkworms." Her voice was the same as ever, and she turned her gaze back on the tree. "Harry is..." she trailed off.

"Looking for magic mirrors." Harry supplied. "Mine's gotten lost."

Tom's lips quirked. "Ah. Silkworms and mirrors...if you would... I think we could talk over there." He gestured to a spot on the grounds somewhat farther away from the castle.

"I'll keep an eye out for your mirror, Harry. Be careful of more Nargles..." Luna warned.

"All right," Harry agreed.

The clearing was bright in the afternoon light, and Harry couldn't help but notice how the sun played on Tom's hair. It was getting very difficult to see him as "the future dark lord." They sat down on the grassy hill, both resolutely looking towards the Womping Willow rather than look at one another.

Riddle spoke first. “You wanted to tell me a fairy tale.”

“Did I?”

“When we were in the library, discussing second year, you mentioned something like that…” Tom prompted.

 _Ah. Second year,_ Harry thought. "Wouldn't you prefer a real one? The golden ball or Nix Nott Nothing?" Harry puzzled.

"That wasn't really what I meant," Riddle laughed, and for a moment, Harry could almost imagine calling this boy ‘Tom.’ “But you can tell me whatever story you like.”

"Do you mind if I tell it slowly?" Harry asked, plucking a piece of grass to shred between his fingers.

"Take your time," Riddle coaxed.

Harry fiddled with his glasses, thinking of how to begin. “In second year, there was a large, terrible snake woken up by a fierce Princess who had a terrible secret. She was haunted by a book. Not just any book, but a fearsome diary.

“She lived in a terribly large castle, and she was probably afraid of getting lost, or not making friends, or learning the wrong types of magic. So she confided in the very book that haunted her.”

“How very...silly...of her.” Riddle commented dryly.

Harry frowned. "Don't make fun of her." Riddle shifted on the ground, looking like he might be developing a headache. Satisfied that he wouldn't interrupt, Harry continued. “One day, she wrote, ‘Dear My Best Friend,’ and she stalled a while, trying to think of the best way to say it. ‘I had classes today, and my dear old professor Doge, who is the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, told us a story about a creature he met on his travels. Do you like creatures?’ Of course, the Dreadful Diary did like creatures, and said so.

“The Princess went on to tell him about Doge, who told an interesting story that started out about monsters, but then the professor got confused, and halfway through it turned into a lecture on ‘how to defeat Dark Wizards with only a hat, your wand, and your wits about you.’ But eventually she finished talking about class, and started to talk about her friends, and her brother’s friends. So things went. The diary talked to her, and together they made secrets.”

Harry looked at Tom closely then, watching him for any sort of reaction, for any kind of hint that he remembered parts of this tale.

Tom looked at him with a sort of hunger that Harry was only accustomed to seeing from afar-- on Snape when he spoke of the Dark Arts position, on Lucius when he spoke of getting rid of Dumbledore, and of Percy when he talked of greatness. On Tom Riddle, he didn't know what the object was-- did Riddle desire Harry's story, or something else? Did he want _Harry?_

"Go on," the other said quietly. "What happened next?"

Harry took a deep breath. “Finally, on All Hollow’s Eve, the rest of the school noticed a Not Creative Warning written in blood (…or was it paint?) The Monster was given a name—the Heir of Slytherin. Or rather, the Heir was the diary, and the monster was actually not named, as far as I ever found out.

“So, with our Most Not Suspicious defense teacher yet (which wasn’t very hard, as I’d only had one…so I didn’t suspect him, which was ok), the Boy started thinking about the Heir. Not the princess, because he didn’t know about her yet.” Harry paused, remembering. Things had _felt_ different that year... more solemn, more dangerous...more like Duty than an Adventure. He chewed his lip, reflecting.

With students getting petrified, and his classmates turning on him as though _he_ was evil or wrong, it was so much harder than the year before. _A little like now. A little like last year, when they thought I entered my own name._

Riddle tilted his head, waiting. "And? Did the teacher help at all?"

“Well, the Boy didn’t go to the teacher…even if he wasn’t suspicious. Unfortunately, the Boy and his friends suspected an Arrogant Git of a Slytherin and didn’t think to ask the Princess about Dreadful Diaries at all.

“So the Boy and his friends crept about in the dark of the corridors in the middle of the days, and they met the Ghost. Now, when you hear ‘ghost,’ you might think of something scary, tragic, or sad, but this Ghost was actually just like another student who happened to live in the Toilets.” He paused like a good story-teller to allow for questions.

Tom did not ask anything though. He simply watched Harry, and his hands sketched out the pattern of something on his side. _Tap, tap, tap._

Harry cleared his throat. “I may have skipped the bit, where one of the friends of the Boy was petrified after finding a big hint...and the part where the whole school thought the Boy was the Heir, and the part about spiders...”

“Stop a moment. When did they meet the ghost, and why is that important when the spiders _aren’t?_ ” Riddle asked.

“Right. The Ghost. The Ghost was a girl who died in the Toilet, and they never bothered asking her how, although that would have been an excellent place to start. She was there when they Suspected the Git, and she made a lot of noise to keep them all secret.”

Riddle rolled his eyes. “Yes, I see. So they met in the...girls’ toilet.” His interest was peaked.

“Yes. She (the ghost, I mean) was secretly the guardian of the Tunnels, but she didn’t realize it. That’s when they got the First Big Hint. The Git was not the culprit, which they found out after they bothered to change their faces.

“So, the Princess was spirited away into the depths of the chamber by the Dreadful Diary. But we still didn’t know it was the diary-- just that the Heir had taken the Boy’s friend’s sister.” Harry let the handful of shredded grass fall to the ground.

A few minutes passed while Harry thought of all that transpired there.

“Why don’t you just say Ginny? Or at least Ron’s sister?” Riddle groused.

Harry glared, and began again, “The Boy had once peaked into her Dreadful Diary, but he didn’t realize what it was. The name on the front,” here stopped to give Tom a significant glance, “wasn’t hers. It was yours, actually. But back to the story-- the Princess was Spirited Away, and the Boy and his friend were alone because the smartest one of them was in an enchanted sleep in the other tower.”

Tom frowned. “And that is the _sole_ reason you dislike me, isn’t it? Hasn’t it occurred to you that anyone could have charmed that name there?” His dark eyes bore into Harry, as though he expected an answer.

But Harry wasn’t listening. “The Headmaster was away, unable to reach them due to the Servant’s interference, and the Strict Old Lady wasn’t listening, so there was no one to turn to but the Defense Teacher who liked odd hats.”

Tom sighed. The list of characters was getting entirely too long. “Who was Doge. Yes. I remember.”

“We asked him because he, in his folly, had said something useful once. ‘I know what the Monster is!’ he had said, but then he forgot again.”

“‘In his folly?’” Riddle laughed darkly. “Who says that anymore, Potter?”

“Me. Be quiet and listen. Anyway, the teacher was really excited to come with us, you know...and he cast a nice cushioning charm to keep anyone from breaking their neck.” Harry added absentmindedly. “But then the tunnel fell in, and the Odd Hat Man was knocked out, and Ron was stuck because he broke his leg, and the Boy went out to see if he could find the Fierce, but unfortunately unconscious, Princess.”

“So this is when you came face to face with the ‘Dreadful Diary?’” Riddle guessed. Or prompted. Or added. Harry had begun wondering if Riddle really didn't know this story, or if he was just acting as though he didn't...

“When he went forward to see if the Princess would waken,” Harry said, and his green eyes settled on Riddle’s, “that’s when he met you.”

“Not me, Harry.” Riddle’s voice was cold and hard. He challenged Harry, but at the same time, he seemed…frustrated? Uncertain?

“The Dastardly Diary then.”

“Wasn’t it ‘Dreadful Diary’ before?” Riddle mocked.

Harry ignored that. “You should remember what happened after that.” He insisted. “Yes, well. You see, the Boy had written in the diary, and seen a memory (which was actually the memory of a trick to get rid of some students. The heir planned really well…), and at first he thought it was the memory somehow come to help him. Because he was there the first time. But Tom Riddle’s diary wasn’t there to help…he was there to steal the life from the Fierce Princess who had written and become a secret. Oh, and he also wanted to kill me.”

Riddle considered. “Why? Wouldn’t the life of one innocent be enough? There is hardly any significance in _two_ children.”

“‘Course there is. Lots of things happen in pairs. Lots more happens in threes, but pairs are common enough. Anyway, the real reason he wanted to kill me is because he, like you, is Lord Voldemort. And he, like you, wanted me out of the picture.”

Harry considered the rest of his words carefully. He could always tell things the way they happened (the Princess Awoke, they defeated the Diary, and the Diary had a few words about how great he was, and in his arrogance, he was defeated, and the Monster too).

Or Harry could test Riddle. See if he actually knew the story already.

He watched Riddle carefully, looking for a shine in his eyes or a twitch that might give the boy away. “I went to the Chamber, and I saw her fiery hair. Then, the Diary did something strange. It stopped talking, and it regarded the Monster of a Basilisk carefully. The Diary said, ‘Leave now, for you are about your death, Boy. The King of Serpents has no need of you.’”

Tom did not respond to that. He watched Harry just as carefully as Harry watched him, and he presently raised his eyebrows as though to say, ‘Get on with it.’

So Harry did. “But the Boy would not go. He crept closer to the Princess, and he said to the snake, ‘Free yourself of him. Go wander the walls no longer, and find your refuge in the Lake!’

“The Diary was very angry indeed to hear this, but it could only look coldly at its Monster. ‘I am the Heir.’ The Diary said, though it wasn’t technically true, seeing that he hadn’t any body but instead he had a book. ‘You will kill the Boy and leave the Princess’s body, for I shall have her soul!’ The Dreadful Diary demanded.”

Riddle frowned, puzzlement showing in his expression. He looked rather uncertain and afraid. His eyes darted to the side, checking for anyone else who might have heard those words.

“But the Boy was a brave one, and he could call the Sword into his hand, _Snicker Snack, one-two, one-two, and the Diary was severed in two._ The Diary’s Memory screamed, wavered once, and died while the Monster laughed.

“When he was gone for good, the Serpent said to the Boy, ‘I thank you for your service. I am now a Free Monster, and I shall go slither about the Forest!!’ and it left without touching so much as a hair on their heads.” Harry announced proudly. He determinedly ignored the memory of a Basilisk Fang in his shoulder, the Great Snake Corpse rotting in the Chamber, and how scared he was that Ginny might never wake up. He also didn’t mention the Phoenix either, without whom they (Professor Doge, Ginny, Ron, and Harry) couldn’t have found their way out again.

He finished instead with, “And so they lived happily ever after. Or at least they did until the next year, when the Grim came calling.”

Throughout all of this, Tom’s interest did not waver. He even straightened a bit when he heard that the Basilisk might still be alive, and Harry imagined he would comb the forest for signs of it.

Tom favored Harry with a slow smile, and he said, “Thank you.” Riddle stood. His expression was proud and haughty as before, but Harry thought he might have seen a trace of hope there.

It was an odd thing to think of Voldemort, and he wondered at it. But it was time to look for the mirror again, and after that, time to sleep.

* * *

And Harry began to dream...

o0o0o0o0o

Harry Dreamed.

"You have his heart?" Harry pushed his sleeves back, neatly displaying his thin-fingered hands. Harry's thoughts still lingered on the promises of that line of research—the allure of the knowledge, so close and yet so obscure. It would end, doubtless, in a curse among many, but still… The desire to discover burned ever bright, even with more pressing matters at hand.

Harry brought his mind back to the tall, thin trembling man before him. "Put it there on the table. Now, report." Harry walked slowly as though to music only he could hear. His eyes were trained on the man in the corner.

"My Lord," he began hastily, and his words were thick. "We arrived on time, but I'm afraid that the resistance was stronger than we anticipated."

Harry let out a slow breath, and simply looked at the wizard, knowing that his full attention was a terrible thing to bear.

"We could not get it, My Lord, and they may have moved it." He swallowed hard, barely managing to keep the tremor from his voice.

"I told you," Harry said as he slowly made his way closer, "that failure would result in your death." One step more, and he would be close enough to touch.

"We didn't get it, but no one saw us! I swear it- no one was killed, and none of the new recruits died-"

"And yet there are still rumors of mysterious disappearances and deaths, if you know where to look. Tell me, why is that? Hm?" Harry raised one hand, straightening the collar of the other's robes. "It's because you have had losses before. And precious resources, our recruits, number among those corpses..." Harry couldn't keep the disgust from his voice. His hand moved to touch the throat of the messenger, and his fingers began to close.

The light in the room flickered.

Harry froze, listening to another noise. It came from the side, just out of his sight. There was a slight flutter, as though something alighted there. Silence resumed, and then there was the odd sensation that Harry was all too familiar with- hunger. So deep that it reached out and caressed him. It came on thin arms, barely more than bones, and it came with dazed eyes. He stretched out his senses, and there it was, reaching for him.

Harry allowed his hand to relax, turned his head, and deciphered the messages the magic would reveal. Avarice, fear. These things lurked around wet lips. Another man might have cowered, and others would have rallied courageously against the feeling of despair. But not him. Harry felt his own lips stretching into a smile, felt his heart thunder in his chest, and he relished the feeling.

"Yes," he breathed. "I have been waiting."

A soft, dry sound met that statement, something like a laugh. There was someone else just behind the Dementor, a small, sallow-skinned thing with a curtain of dirty hair. It spoke softly; "You have called, Lord?"

Harry reigned in his emotions even as he longed to go closer, to explore the magic the Dementor brought with it. He tilted his head to regard the thing. "Long have I waited to speak with you."

The thing nodded shakily. "We are glad. We come," here he paused to give importance to the word, and Harry resented his dramatics, "to negotiate. There is nothing we could not do for you, Dark Lord. I have heard what you offer, and wish to discuss it further."

"So we understand one another." Harry smiled thinly, "Come. Let us speak."

The Dementor beside the thing with dirty hair moved without sound. It reached for its cowl—

-and Harry woke up, scar throbbing and eyes stinging.

tbc...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*1) Kelpies are freaking creepy. 'The Doomed Rider' is the name of the story. This story from "Scottish Fairy and Folk Tales," (1901) takes place in a small town near a river during a harvest. The farmers heard a voice from the river exclaim, 'The hour but not the man has come.' They looked into the deep pool and saw the kelpie. Just as they wonder what the Kelpie means, the hear a man coming down the path in great haste. They stall the man and lock him in a church to save his life, but to no avail - the traveler was later found drowned in a water trough inside.' -an' sae ye see, the prophecy o' the kelpie availed naething."
> 
> (*2)Harry's referencing the 12 Dancing Princesses.  
> Twelve princesses sneak out each night, wearing their dancing shoes to pieces. The king offers to reward whomever can discover where and how they go, and if they cannot, the suitor would be put to death. One soldier is given a cloak of invisibility to follow the princesses and told by the fairy/old women (depending on the version) not to eat or drink anything the princesses offer him. He discovers that they disappear into the land of fairy/ a trapdoor beneath their bedroom floor. He follows them, and brings back with him a leaf from each tree they pass- the first a leaf of silver, the second gold and the third glittering diamonds. To summarize the end, the soldier proves where the girls go, and gets to marry one of them (either the youngest or the oldest, depending on the version you read).
> 
> (*3) Another version of the frog prince. Princess drops her beloved golden ball (a toy) down a well, and a frog returns it to her if she will do what it says for a day. She lets it eat from her table, and sleep in her bed, and gets a kiss. Then it turns out he's...a prince.
> 
> (*4) Nix Nought Nothing, an English Fairy Tale not Nott, though that's a fun little Potter pun. Full story to be told in later chapter.
> 
> (*5)up to this point, events are as in canon. Instead of Lockhart, Harry and Ron ask Doge (the second year professor who replaces Lockhart in my story) for help, but the old man is forgetful and clumsy, so he passes out and is unable to help Harry the same as Lockhart was unable to help.
> 
> (*6) from this point, Harry is lying. He makes up a new set of events (namely: he lies by saying that the Basilisk escapes (!) and that Harry wasn't poisoned by the Basilisk Fang either. Please note: the Basilisk is in fact dead, and Harry was poisoned and saved by Fawkes). He does this to see if Tom will notice; if he doesn't notice, Harry reasons that Tom might not actually be the same Tom as the Diary-Figure.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	8. A ghost's memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **This time** Harry tries to arrange an appointment with Dumbledore, but is stopped at every attempt. Unexpectedly, Harry finds an insight into the mysterious memory charm by talking to a ghost. 
> 
> Also, McGonagall is annoyed by Lockhart. ;)
> 
> End of second week of classes, mid September. School day.

Chapter 8: The memory of ghosts, and Quidditch Ban

It was well into the next day since Harry had had the dream, and he _still_ hadn’t talked to Dumbledore about it. Flying to the Headmaster’s chamber in the middle of the night only cost him points (Snape) and a lecture (also Snape). Before breakfast (which he decided to skip) he’d tried to rope Ron and Hermione into helping him talk to someone, but they insisted he wait.

“Dumbledore will be back soon, I’m sure.” Hermione told him firmly. She seemed skeptical if the dream had any significance at all.

When Harry told them Snape was keeping him from Dumbledore, or that Dumbledore was actively avoiding him, Ron just gave him a look. “Do you know how rare it is for a regular student to talk to the Headmaster? I mean, sure, Snape probably is blocking you just for kicks, but it could be that Dumbledore really is busy. He _is_ the most famous wizard alive right now… even if everyone thinks he’s gone nutters…”

Harry opened his mouth to protest. 

“We understand that you want to talk with him. You _will,_ I’m sure, but it’s going to take time. It’s no good bringing it up every five minutes!” Hermione added. 

Harry frowned furiously down at the floor. “Right. I’m heading back to the common room then.” He said, though he had no intention of doing so, and squeezed between a crowd of Hufflepuffs in the halls.

"Harry, don't forget-- it's a free period, but we've got class--" Hermione shouted. 

"I know!" Harry told her, (though he hadn't, actually). His feet lead him through the halls, all the while replaying the many conversations they’d had since morning. 

_I’ve got to remember the dream. I can’t forget any of it._ Harry thought. Dumbledore _had_ been interested in Harry’s dream last year, no matter what Hermione said. When he saw Wormtail in the house with Ivy, when he saw the thing in the chair, Dumbledore had wanted to know. He’d thought it meaningful, even if he hadn’t known what it meant. Ron and Hermione might think he was dreaming up monsters because he was stressed, scared, or crazy (he shied away from that last thought), but…

“Oooh,” a disembodied voice crooned.

Harry looked up. Somehow, he’d come all the way to the first floor girl’s lavatory without even noticing. He glanced around quickly. Water was leaking out the door, which had been carelessly left open. He supposed Myrtle must have been crying dramatically, loudly even, before she noticed him, but there was no sign of whoever had opened the door.

“Er, is this a bad time?” Harry asked. 

“It’s you,” Myrtle replied, “so no. There were girls talking about me—they wouldn’t even come in!”

Harry nodded. “Um, that was nasty of them. Listen, has anyone else tried to get in…?” 

“No one comes in here but you and your lot. And you haven’t for a long time…I haven’t seen you since the Lake.” She said with a mischievous smile. “Not having baths, recently?”

“Not with other people.” Harry replied quickly. “Definitely not.” 

 

She grinned at him, “Too bad. I could have showed you where they keep the oils.” 

Harry tried not to think about that. “Oh, Myrtle, listen. There’s a curse on the castle, and it’s really important that you answer me. Have you noticed a new student? I mean, not a first year, and you just said no one comes in here…um.” The words kept jumbling about in his head. She was getting unpleasantly close—he was chilled to bones. 

Then Myrtle gave a surprised little squeak, and her face clouded over. “Are you here to laugh at me?” She was looking at the door. 

Harry glanced behind him to see none other than Tom Riddle. “Are you following me? Yes, you are.” Then, “Do you recognize him, Myrtle?” 

“Oh, is this the new student you’re asking about? That’s the only reason you ever come here! Myrtle, do you know something? Myrtle, can you help?” She wailed, tears springing to her eyes. 

“He’s your murderer, isn’t he?” Harry demanded.

“He isn’t! He’s not a pair of yellow eyes, now is he?” Myrtle shot back angrily, the tears mysteriously vanishing. “I would know, wouldn’t I!” her voice dropped an octave, and water started spewing from the toilets and faucets. 

Tom looked from the ghost of the girl he had killed in the past (or some other version of him. Harry wasn’t quite sure) to Harry and gave wry smile. But still, he said nothing for a moment. “Murderer? I heard she died the year the Chamber of Secrets opened…some fifty years ago. I wasn’t even alive, Harry.”

“I don’t exactly know how it happened, but you were alive. You’re Tom Riddle. He was Tom Riddle. It was still you, wasn’t it? People just don’t remember properly.” 

Tom looked pained. “I share a _name_ with a former student. Don’t you think that’s rather common for such an old school?”

“There was a Tom Riddle in my time. He was handsome… but he never even noticed me,” Myrtle’s lip began to tremble.

“Myrtle. So you mean you know there’s been two Toms? Three, I mean… the one in the diary… This is the newest. Is he real?”

“Are you making fun of me?” Myrtle’s face screwed up. “He’s new—”

“Obviously she can’t keep her memories straight. Ghosts are pitiful creatures, Harry…but you cannot trust them.”

“You know, he might be right. He does look like Tom Riddle. He became Head Boy after I died…I found out while haunting Olive Hornby. Did you know Olive Hornby?” 

Strangely, Harry thought he might have seen something reflected there in Myrtle’s glasses—no, in her eyes. 

“No. Of course not.” Tom said calmly. 

“Myrtle, did you see him? The year we Opened, ehhh, the year I met you? Did you see _Tom?_ ”

“He wasn’t even at the castle, now was he? This one’s new. Like you said.” She said.

“Your memories aren’t affected,” Harry whispered. “Do you know when he came?”

“I don’t know. I hardly ever leave the bathrooms. I’m not like those _House_ ghosts.” Her voice hitched. “No one invites me to anything social!”

“Imagine that.” Riddle shifted uneasily on his feet, saying, “You opened the Chamber of Secrets. You. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived?”

“Ooooh, he doesn’t know, does he?” Myrtle giggled. 

“Tell me Myrtle, does death weigh heavily on you?” Tom snapped. “Ghosts and portraits. All you have to barter with is words, isn’t it? You and Harry are telling a story together. But since you seem so interested in the Chamber, might I remind you? I wasn’t _in_ the Chamber that night.” 

“I’m not so sure about that.” Harry said. “Maybe he didn’t die…the memory.”

“Memory cannot die.” Tom snapped. “It is eternal.” 

“No.” Harry replied. “It’s rewritten every time you access it. That’s how brains work. Memory is fluid, and memories can change. I heard that from Hermione just this morning. She told me I was embellishing my dream.” 

“Your friends don’t even believe you.” Riddle smirked. “Which reminds me…Harry, I’ve a message for you. You’ve been banned from Quidditch.”

“What?” Harry asked dumbly. 

“It’s a pity. I’m sure the fresh air, the exercise would have done you good…you should have gone to practice, Harry. Everyone was talking about it this morning, but you didn’t go to that, either, did you?” His eyes glittered.

“That’s not true.” 

Myrtle sucked in her breath. “It might be. That woman…she came in here, even inspecting the bathroom. Super-what’s-it.”

“High Inquisitor now, I’m afraid.” A ghost of a smile crossed Tom’s face.

Harry glared at him, and without another word, sped out of the bathroom. “Not Quidditch,” he muttered, and burst into the common room. 

 

“I can't believe this!” Quidditch captain Angelina Johnson stormed over from a few feet away. She tore her gaze from whoever she was talking to to stare directly at Harry. “Harry, I need you. Come here, it's important! We're going to talk to Professor McGonagall. That Umbridge. She's gone and banned anyone who misses tryouts from Quidditch!”

Right there in the Gryffindor common room, Angelina dragged Harry away. Minutes later, they stood before their head of house's office, and pushed the door open.

Harry took a deep breath, determined to go in and ask his head of house for advice about Quidditch. Or possibly discuss Riddle. Both, maybe.

However, Angelina spoke first. “Professor, have you seen the new decree? She's banned our seeker! Professor, we barely even got permission to reform the team, and now she's gone and banned our seeker. Can you or Dumbledore please,” she paused, perhaps noticing how McGonagall was frowning at her loud voice. “Please, can we get Harry back on the team?”

“Angelina, there really is nothing to be done. If the Superintendent has a new decree stating that no player may be reinstated after missing the initial tryouts, I'm afraid there is little I can do.” Professor McGonagall said sternly.

Harry looked from McGonagall to Angelina with a frown.

“Professor,” Harry said lightly, aware that Angelina talked faster than he did. “I want to play.” Harry said firmly. “I love Quidditch. Being part of the Quidditch Team is important to me- I wouldn't have half as good reflexes if it weren't for dodging Bludgers all the time.” He added with a faint smile. He shifted slightly when both McGonagall and Angelina turned to look at him. “Er. Maybe she could have me for detention again, and I could play on a probation status.” He suggested quickly, getting the words out hard and fast.

“Mr. Potter.” McGonagall said. “I will be speaking to Dumbledore about our position on the subject, but he has already had words with Dolores Umbridge. She has been granted permission to strip students of privileges. You do understand that this means she has the right, under the law, to determine whether or not you can play?”

Harry shook his head. “But I didn't do anything.”

McGonagall glanced at the parchment on her desk. “According to Umbridge, you showed 'blatant disregard for your team and for school established tradition.' Also, that you 'showed little inclination of following rules or regulations within school walls,' which means, essentially, that letting Harry James Potter play Quidditch 'is a threat to the boy himself and all others on his team.'“ She looked at him doubtfully. “I know it's a lot to take,” she paused, “but you'll simply have to prove her wrong before the ban can be lifted.”

Angelina shouted with outrage. “He was in detention!” she insisted.

“Miss Johnson, you will confine your shouting matches to the Quidditch pitch in future or risk losing the team captaincy! I will be seeing you in class, Mr. Potter.” Professor McGonagall fixed the two of them with a stern look. “This is only the beginning of the Superintendent's decrees. Both of you, be careful.”

Angelina frowned something awful, but Harry set his jaw, and took after the professor. “Professor McGonagall- the Superintendent... Quidditch. Wait, what decree?” Harry frowned, and resisted the urge to chew his lip. His memory, or his thoughts threatened to cloud over.

“Come on Harry.” Angelina said firmly.

“No, I need to speak with Professor McGonagall.” Harry insisted.

Angelina cast him a disapprovingly worried glance. But in the end, she rolled her eyes to the ceiling and backed off.

“The decrees, Mr. Potter are posted publicly. Do try and keep up with them. You risk expulsion if she catches you breaking any. There have been 25 decrees in her short tenure thus far, the most memorable being number 23. It created the post of High Inquisitor, which she was nominated for.” McGonagall gave him a severe look. “You didn't realize?”

Harry shook his head, and the thoughts that had seemed so orderly before started jumbling again. “She's the Superintendent. What does her being High Inquisitor change?”

McGonagall rubbed her temples. “She is representing the Board and the Ministry. Be careful what you say and do around her. She heard about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. She knows you said this. She blames you for 'starting rumors,' though you have thus far not done so in her presence. Furthermore, she cannot forgive you for the results of the hearing this summer.” McGonagall said slowly.

“Voldemort is back. You know it. I know it. Everyone saw-”

McGonagall tensed and averted her eyes when he said Voldemort's name, but she managed to hold up a hand and give him another look. “Mr. Potter. Until the Ministry has resolved its stance on that issue, it's best that you don't provoke her. Professor Snape already warned you. She will not listen, no matter how many times you say the truth!” She snapped.

“But Professor- even Professor Dumbledore-”

McGonagall sighed. “Have a biscuit, Harry.”

Harry blinked. “Uh, no thank you.”

“Nonsense! Have a biscuit,” McGonagall insisted.

Harry took a biscuit.

“Ah, Minerva! I hear your house is looking for a new Seeker?” Harry tensed at the overly boisterous Lockhart. “Let me know when he or she is chosen—I was offered a spot on the national team, you know, but I proffered to dedicate my career to the eradication of the Dark Forces. But! I would be more than happy to impart some of my many talents to your newest team member. Minerva? Hello? Your door seems to be stuck—I can't quite open it… Minerva?”

“Oh for Merlin's sake.” The door rattled. Professor McGonagall's lips thinned. “Professor Lockart—I'm with a student.” McGonagall raised her voice to carry. To Harry, she muttered “Say nothing until he goes away.”

Harry thought that was rather odd advice, and said so.

McGonagall gave him an exasperated look. “Professor Lockhart,” she continued, “the team has a more than sufficient Captain, and so I'm afraid any hopefuls will have to come to you directly. I have nothing else to say on the matter, so please allow me to return to my other duties.” She had her wand pointed at the door, and her voice went through the solid wood as though it weren't there.

McGonagall had just removed her wand and stepped away as the door rattled and clinked. “Ooomph!” Lockhart said. He fell into the room, his lilac robes all aflutter. Lockhart took a moment to consider the room while McGonnagal said something that neither of them was listening to. His gaze focused on Harry, and an 'ah-hah' expression came over him. “Harry my boy!” he exclaimed.

Harry nibbled his biscuit.

“I should have known it was you. Trying to overrule Umbridge's veto on your position?” He flashed his shining teeth in some kind of grin. “Now, now, I think you'd be better trying to win Umbridge over, not McGonagall. Pitting yourself against her?” He laughed. “Oh no, not going to work.”

Like the night of the detention, Lockhart seemed to be of two minds. There were the words he spoke, and the words he whispered. Harry remembered him, standing behind the quill, seemingly so comfortable in lair of the Superintendent-bandersnatch. There and not there.

Harry frowned, trying to remember what Lockhart had said. Had he actually cast magic at the Superintendent? But that was surely against the school rules- even more blatantly against the rules than missing tryouts, surely. Was that part of the pain-induced illusion?

“I'm sorry you were put off the team so forcibly, but...” Lockhart was saying.

“Professor Lockhart.” McGonagall said loudly enough that they both faced her.

“I want to talk to Professor McGonagall in private.” Harry muttered.

“I see.” Lockhart said.

 _And woe were the hearts of the brethren, for he came not back again._ (*1) The quote came unbidden into Harry's head. Once again it felt as though his vision doubled. As he looked between the House Cat and the Peacock-that-Wasn't-a-JubJub-Bird, Harry remembered his question from before.

Was he the Vorpal Blade or the JubJub Bird? It seemed important somehow... the idea of no longer being able to fly for the Quidditch team paled in comparison.

“Wait. Professor Lockhart.” Harry said. He tried to turn his words into something that would lead him out of his confused state. “What did you say to Umbridge during that detention?”

“I beg your pardon?” Lockhart sputtered.

“Accidental magic?” Harry prompted.

McGonagall looked from Harry to Lockhart with a closed-off expression. “Harry.” She said warningly. “I'm sorry, Professor Lockhart, but what is he referring to?”

Lockhart laughed it off. “My, my, Harry. Always the showman. It's nothing Minerva, just Harry here trying to scratch his Fame Bite.”

McGonagall's lips thinned. “I see. Well, Professor, if you insist on discussing the matter now? Harry, if you would, please see me again at another time. My door is always open.” She said, and the words seemed to carry a weight to it.

“Right. I'll let myself out, then…” Harry agreed, remembering the various times McGonagall's door appeared to be locked ...or maybe just closed. He glanced at Lockhart, hoping he might answer his question about the detention, but Lockhart seemed intent on staying with McGonagall.

Once in the hallway, Harry remembered belatedly that he wanted to mention Tom Riddle to McGonagall, but it appeared to be too late. He sighed, and just as he was about to see what exactly Tom meant to do in Myrle’s bathroom, he caught sight of a nearby portrait. The portrait seemed to be waving at him- rather frantically, too, as though he needed to show Harry something really important.

Harry cautiously stepped forward, listening to the portraits talk. “The look that boy gave me- it was quite unnatural! I asked The Widow (Harry remembered that to be the subject of the portrait nearest the headmaster's office) to tell me when he came out again,” the witch was saying. “Students these days! Shouldn’t they be in class, instead of skulking about near the Headmaster’s office??”

“Harry! There you are. We’re already running late—come on,” Hermione called. 

Reluctantly, Harry answered, “Right—coming.” 

o0o0o0o0o0o

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *1 quoted from 'Childe Rowland,' an English fairy based on a Scottish ballad involving people going into the fairy land an being unable to return. (Harry mistakenly thinks 'childe' means 'child,' but I think it actually means young lord, eg, not yet a knight. Probably.)
> 
> Summary of the fairy tale: Four sons of the queen and Burd (not Bird, btw) Ellen were playing and Burd Ellen goes widdershins (counter-clockwise) around the church, and for this, is stolen away into Elfland (also known as Fairy). Three of her four brothers are advised how to bring her back by Merlin, but all three are unable to follow his instructions. 'But long they waited, and longer still, With muckle doubt and pain, And woe were his mother's and brother's hearts, For he came not back again.' At last, Childe Rowland begs permission from his mother to let him go to. Merlin advises him. ''She is now in the Dark Tower of the King of Elfland; it would take the boldest knight in Christendom to bring her back. After you have entered the land of Fairy, whoever speaks to you, till you meet the Burd Ellen, you must out with your father's brand and off with their head. And what you've not to do is this: bite no bit, and drink no drop, however hungry or thirsty you be; drink a drop, or bite a bit while in Elfland you be and never will you see Middle Earth again.' (Eg, slay all you speak with, and drink or eat nothing). In short, the youngest succeeds where the others failed, and spares the Elven King's life in return for safe passage for all his family from Elfland.
> 
> Next chapter: Tom makes a rash move and takes something from Dumbledore. 
> 
> Do you like scribble-y author comics? I drew one here:  
> http://smallsmiles.deviantart.com/art/Ginny-vs-Tom-Riddle-And-I-hold-my-breath-comic-445070014 
> 
> ♥


	9. Tom Riddle, the Horcrux Book Thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom Riddle steals a book. But he can't possibly think Dumbledore won't find out, can he? (End of 2nd week of September)

**Chapter 9:** Tom Riddle, the horcrux book thief

 

A sense of frustration made me reckless. Weeks had passed, and yet I was no closer to answers than when I first arrived. I was in. All I had to do was take advantage of it. All it took was a little patience, and a smoke screen for the nosy portraits.

 

I peered into the murky surface of the headmaster’s pensive and scowled.   _What is he but a bitter old man?_ I looked away from the artifact and glanced down at Harry’s two-way mirror. It caught the sunlight and reflected the midafternoon sun well. While I cared not for the other mirror it was linked to (doubtless one of Potter’s friends), it was more interesting because of its potential…as a link.  
  
What was more, I had cast spell after spell, and still Harry’s mirror would not change, would not show me what lay locked away in the pensive. It remained obtusely reflective with no clear change in the magic. I remained unable to manipulate the thing and thus dip into one of Dumbledore’s pensive memories. It _could_ have been that easy…but the pensive was not open to me.  
  
Perhaps an hour before, I had waited hours and hours under a disillusionment spell on the twisting staircase, waiting for someone to admit me into his office. I was quite surprised that it turned out to be Dumbledore himself who had let me in. The old fool had been leaving for some reason (I tried to tell myself it might not be to recover some memory of mine. It could be he was legitimately working), and then had _gone back_ to retrieve his hat. I was delighted, and assured by the fact that I could still leave unnoticed by those very same stairs on my own, there being no password or permission for the stairs to go down.  
  
The pensive rested before me, tempting. I peered into the swirling surface, unable to get past the securities Dumbledore has cast around it. _He guards his thoughts well…_ The need to see them burned in me, bright and all consuming. I knew Dumbledore was collecting memories about me. About Lord Voldemort.  
  
I smothered a slow sigh of exasperation as something sounded in my ear—a low tone from the walls. I had taken too long, and still recovered nothing. I tapped my fingers on the rim on the pensive, hoping I was wrong. The spell of darkness that I’d cast around the portraits wouldn’t hold forever. I wondered if I should cast the counter as I left, or if I should leave it for Dumbledore to discover.  
  
But then Dumbledore’s voice sounded below in the hallway, echoing through some enchantment perhaps meant to keep the Headmaster informed of what was said before his office. “Madam Pomfrey, what a pleasure... how rare to see you here. Dare I ask what brings you to my office?”  
  
I let out a breath, relieved to find him so distracted. I could still retreat without him catching me on the stairs, if only he went away...There was only one entrance, after all.  
  
“Ah yes, Mr. Potter. Is he in the Hospital Wing?”  
  
“No, Headmaster. But I had hoped you could have him come by…there was the nasty business of last year with the tournament. I believe he needs to be looked over…the students talk…”  
  
“As they will. I’m sure Harry is handling things as well as can be expected. He is surrounded by his friends, and seems to be doing no worse in his classes.”  
  
“Headmaster, that is not what I’ve heard!”  
  
Dumbledore seemed saddened by her words, and his tone lost a significant amount of geniality as he replied, “Ah. Well. Perhaps you will pass on what you have heard, Madam? Let us walk under the sky, by the lake-shore. It is most remarkable this time of year…”  
  
I felt a thrill of triumph. The fool would leave. With every step away from the door, he furthered my fears of discovery. I would keep my secrets another day. I walked slowly and carefully down the stair, and finally stopped to listen at the door.  
  
There was no sound. The Headmaster and Pomfrey had indeed gone on their scenic walk.  
  
I hesitated back to the pensive, thinking. I was no closer to unlocking the secrets of his pensive. Furthermore, Harry would suspect me of the mirror’s theft soon… I pondered how to get it back to him without rousing suspicion.  
  
A surge of frustration and anger surged up in me. I wanted to see whatever memory Dumbledore has managed to collect. They were _my_ memories, in part. I yearned to have even one, in hopes that it would be one that I had not been granted by the Dark Lord.  
  
“Accio Horcrux books!”  
  
 _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ came into my hands without a complaint, and the weight of it relieved me at once. _Magick Most Evile_ too landed silently. Here, I would find answers. How a Horcrux was made (how it might be reversed), and maybe: how it might be given life again.  
  
I clutched it to my chest, hating the Dark Lord for not trusting me—I who had _so very much_ to gain by understanding Horcruxes. Almost as much as I hated the Dark Lord for his secrets, I hated Dumbledore for his foolish compassion. Dumbledore who had nearly discovered me in his office. This did not endear him to me, either.  
  
I pressed the door open, my arms laden with books of Dark Art, and found myself staring into the brown eyes of Ginevra Weasley.  
  
“What are you doing.” She demanded rather than asked, coming in on me with steps Harry would have called ‘fierce.’  
  
“I just came from the Headmaster’s office. He agreed to loan me some books,” I said evenly.  
  
“I don’t believe you. He just went off with Madam Pomfrey, and he didn’t act like he had any students in his office. But don’t think you pulled the wool over his eyes. He knew you were up there,” the witch told me, raising her chin to glare at me in anger. “He _chose_ to let you into his office. It’s just something he would do.”  
  
I privately agreed with her assessment, my cheeks flaming. “And I suppose you have business with the Headmaster?” I asked instead.  
  
“I have business with you. Show me those books,” she said bitingly.  
  
“No. If he knew I was there, he knew I could get the books. He as good as gave them to me.”  
  
She bristled at that, and I could see why Harry held her in such high regard. “You’re stealing.” She accused.  
  
I raised an eyebrow. “Library books are meant to be borrowed.”  
  
“Give them to me, or I’ll summon Umbridge. She won’t like you with those non-Ministry-approved books, I bet.” She held out a hand. As though I would hand them over at a little threat of the Ministry toad.    
  
Then I noticed her fingers. The hand curled at her side trembled, and if I looked at her in the dying afternoon light, I could see where the sun caught the beads of sweat glistening on her neck. She was afraid.  
  
I smiled. “Get out of my way before I hex you.”  
  
“Expelliarmus!” she yelled, followed by a Knock-Back Hex and Bat-Bogey Hex in quick succession.  
  
I kept the books in my arms for an instant, and then lost them as I tumbled to the floor. I felt heat rush to my cheeks. The sound of her footsteps drove me to my feet, and I gave chase. “Those books are mine!” I screamed furiously.  
  
My feet slammed against the stone floor of the castle, my magic surging energy and speed into every step. I felt my mouth split into a wide grin at the sound of her voice, high with girlish terror, calling for help. I knew this feeling, and cherished it.  
  
I imagined casting a spell on her, a curse that I had read about in my real fourth year. The curse would strip her flesh from her where it struck, leaving glistening white bone under a river of blood. I imagined her writhing in pain as her life’s blood left her.  
  
I opened my mouth and began the incantation—  
  
And the words stuck in my throat. _life’s blood... blood of the enemy...I felt a sickening sensation of something entering between my ribs, and again in my throat. It felt cold and alien, then hot, pulsing-- and blood flowed freely from every open wound._  
  
My heart sped to replace what I lost, my magic whirled and pooled within me-- fighting wounds the world would call ‘mortal.’ I remembered.  
  
Presently, I heard Ginny casting another spell in my direction, determination lighting fire in her eyes as she aimed at my heart.  
  
I pushed the hated memories away; I cast them to the part of my mind which even I would not access without Legilimency. I pulled up strong shields between that time and now-- and whispered three words.  
  
“It ends now.” And I summoned the books back to me.

 

Ginny stared at me, eyes white with terror. All her bravery had collapsed in a bout of common sense. We were alone in a corridor with no Professors in sight, and none likely to come. “I’m telling the professors about those books!” She said. “Don’t think they’ll let you keep them!”

 

I was tempted to obliviate her. But if it was true that the Headmaster had foolishly allowed me in his rooms, the act would only betray me. Books, he might not notice at first, or, I grudgingly admitted, he might have let me discover. If this were the case, I doubted any teacher would be told, or that he’d forgive me for cutting Ginny Weasley’s hamstrings.

 

“Ah, Tom Riddle.” I nearly swore when the headmaster called my name. “Just who I was looking for. Come to my office for a chat, if you would,” his voice was just shy of being honestly inviting.

 

I slid the books beneath my robes, and swiftly conjured a bag to stow them in. “Of course, sir. What is it you wished to talk to me about?” I smiled pleasantly. It would have fooled any of the teachers in the past, but even then, Dumbledore wouldn’t have bought it.

 

“Oh, a few things. How is your term going?” He ushered me up the stairs and into a plush chair opposite him, casually banishing my smoke screen around the portraits without remark. It took all of my composure to keep from flushing, or worse, glaring at the ease he undid my spellwork.

 

“As expected. It’s only second week; things will get more difficult as term goes on, I’m sure. Hogwarts education is always demanding.”

 

The conversation stalled for a moment. Dumbledore conjured tea that I couldn’t accept. “Are you enjoying the readings? Irma tells me you spend a great deal of time in the library.”

 

The Dark Lord had taken special care to warn me of the Headmaster. _He will doubt you._ Voldemort had said. _He will watch your every move, but he will hide it behind a wall of kindness and concern. He has grown sly in his old age... He will no longer will he suspect you outright, or accuse you of thievery or misdeeds like a small child to be cowed._

 

“Yes sir. We’re studying Switching Spell theory…and fairy tales.”

 

“Indeed.” Dumbledore sat in amiable silence for a while, indifferent to my sullen refusal to converse. “And, how do you find the students?”

 

“None of them see me for what I am. We can hardly become friends.” I answered.

 

“Not all of them, Tom.”

 

I bristled. He used my name like a weapon. “Harry Potter is interested in me.” I said. “As is Ginnerva Weasley. Did she have words with you just now? Tell me; why does she hate me?”

 

“Perhaps they have too strong a connection with you and your blood.” He said softly.

 

I smiled cruelly, imagining the light fading from his eyes and his lips stilling in a final grimace—the thought of a painful death for Dumbledore made my heart flutter. “Perhaps your spellwork is failing.”

 

“You spend too much time alone, Tom. You need to attend classes... to communicate with your housemates. The Tom Riddle I knew…” His twinkling blue eyes met mine, and I took a sharp breath. He held the information I most wanted. “…He took great pleasure and pride in being able to help his peers, or at the very least being seen helping. He was often found tutoring his classmates, learning things from them that they never would have suspected.”

 

“Oh?”

 

Dumbledore perhaps mistook my interest for good natured-ness, for his voice became quite cheerful and animated. “Every teacher thought him the model student. Such an ability could help one’s peers immensely....Bonds of trust will support you when ties of fear will only strangle you, Tom”

 

Ah, but there was his mistake. _Severus tells me he is an idealistic fool… He will appeal to your 'good nature' or to your desire to fit in. He will make siding alongside him seem the most natural thing in the world, never understanding that his kindness is condescending. That his pretty words an insult to your intelligence and your background._ The Dark Lord knew Dumbledore best after all, it seemed.

 

“I have nothing left to tell you.”

 

“I am very sad to hear it. Please remember you can speak of anything to me, Tom. What you divulge might help the other students...or help those outside these walls to escape horrible fates.”

 

My jaw clenched. “You try my patience. I have nothing to do with anyone’s fates. I’m merely a pawn.” Let him think on that.

 

“Tell me what you can, Tom. It’s not too late to change—any information you have could help the greater good.” He did not raise his voice, but still it carried. He probably imagined himself to sound saddened, or earnest.

 

I wanted him to ask me. The weight of the books reminded me every moment he waited. But he didn’t ask outright. And I could not—would not—speak of it.

 

The silver instruments clicked and whirred behind me. The portraits were strangely silent.

 

“Information?” I scoffed, stirring in my “You might as well ask me, ‘What are Voldemort’s plans?’ I don’t know.” I snapped.

 

Only to be told, “You assume that I think your only worth is what you can reveal about him, and the Death Eaters he controls. But that is not so, Tom; I want you to realize that you have unique abilities all your own. Voldemort has never loved, but you? I think you might. You are not chained to his past… your choices from this day--”

 

I laughed, and interrupted, “That’s ridiculous. Love? You really are a fool.”

 

Dumbledore frowned. He was sadness personified, and the anger wrangled out more words.

 

“You think by allowing me a second education, by encouraging me to ‘love’ the students or the school that something will change? That I will give you the information necessary to bring down the Dark Lord?” I sneered. “I know what you’re really after. What information you seek when you leave the school.” My voice was a low hiss.

 

Surely, Dumbledore was fishing for information. The one questing he could not ask, not without tipping his hand, and possibly alerting the Dark Lord. _‘What Horcrux were you, Tom Riddle? How many others are there?’_ Those hidden, dark secrets that he cannot trust me enough to ask.

 

I stood up, eager to leave. To find a place to be alone, to read the books stolen from this very office. My eyes burned with anger. “If I may be excused, headmaster.”

 

“Go to your classes, Tom.” Dumbledore ordered. “And learn to love.”

 

o0o0o0o0o0o

 

After dinner, free time in the common room was always a trial. Students felt they had all kinds of reason to jibe, what with the 'poor, lonely Slytherin boy' routine Dumbledore forced down their throats. Only a few of the smarter ones thought deeper than the compulsion, and those students wisely kept their glances to themselves and their words under wraps. Not Draco Malfoy, though. His family always did encourage loose tongues.

 

“Potter still bothering you then, Riddle?” Malfoy asked pleasantly, using his ‘senior student’ voice. Malfoy and other members of the Quidditch team occupied the plush chairs as usual, and the lower classmen were scattered around at desks and less prominent cushy armchairs. Malfoy was well-accustomed to holding conversations like this, and when he spoke, everyone listened. Favor from the Death Eaters carried over well, it seemed. “He was utterly mental during Care for Magical Creatures, did I mention?”

 

He had. At length. “You may have,” I replied, my face and tone impassive.

 

“Can't figure what his deal is with you. Don't know why he'd bother-- obscure and _poor_ wizard like yourself. Maybe he thinks you're a blood traitor like the Weasleys.” his lip curled, and his surrounding year mates snorted or chuckled in turn.

 

I made a mental tally of who laughed—Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle, Parkinson, Milicent, Pike, Zabini… and those who didn’t. The Greengrass and Carrow sisters, Nott, and Adrian Pucey.

 

 

“But then, he _doesn't_ like you, does he? Bet you knew that from the start. Even you know that Slytherins don't associate with Gryffindors.” Malfoy said, his voice low and annoying.

 

“Does he?” Nott asked. “I've seen him seek out Potter in the corridors.”

 

I turned to regard Nott. He had a quiet way about him. He never seemed to associate with Malfoy outright, and he was possibly as solitary as a student could be at Hogwarts. That he spoke out now was interesting-- what could he be planning?

 

I shrugged, and considered my answer. I was not a known relative to a Death Eater, but that had not kept the upper years from approaching me (something that amused me to no ends. So far, I had turned them away with vague answers and flat disinterest).

 

I remembered the Horcrux book in my school bag, its presence weighing heavily on me. A heady sensation overcame me-- I had much more power, much more information than even the highest ranking of the Death Eater's sons and daughters around the common room. The thought made me sit straight and offer only crooked half smiles. The fact did not change even my assigned heritage (vague though Dumbledore's implications might be), however.

 

The fact remained that all of my knowledge and power hinged on what the Dark Lord had _given_ me. I could not be satisfied with that. The desire to show my hand, to allude to Death Eater connections was stronger now than ever before. How dare Dumbledore assume I would turn coat and come over to his side? I could have the Slytherins to a man, if I only dropped the right hints.

 

“What I do and whom I talk with is none of your concern,” I said, keeping my face indifferent.

 

From his place at the steps, Zabini shook his head. He was obviously posing there, and making quite a pretty scene. “Why do you even bother with the fourth year nobody?” he sneered. “He probably _is_ looking for charity.”

 

Zabini's comment brought smiles from other fourth years. Despite my standing taller than they, and looking comfortably closer to Draco's age than they did, Harper and Max exchanged grins as though I were properly 'humbled.' Rowle, a clever girl if I ever saw one, merely glanced around surreptitiously checking for the others' reactions.

 

Over the mindless chatter that echoed Zabini’s commentary, I began to hear something altogether unrelated. It was soft at first, and I did not hear it so much as feel it trembling in my chest. Then my heart began to hammer as the sounds realigned themselves. _Come._ The words hissed in my ears, and I did not know if I spoke them or heard them.

 

I stood, ignoring the protests among the Slytherins. Something about the voice reverberated with me, reminded me of something. My inheritance, my past and my very being... I had moved to the portrait-hole before I noticed that I was moving. Resolved now to seek out the voice, I strode more purposefully, and kept my back straight.　

 

I wondered vaguely if anyone would follow, but pushed the thoughts aside. The thing hissed again, _Come._

 

The thought occurred to me that I was being summoned, that I may soon meet Voldemort's servants.　I might not have uncovered any hints of the Prophecy, or killed Dumbledore, but surely I would have more time...　Or perhaps Voldemort was unimpressed with the modified memory charm.　I would meet them, whoever Voldemort has sent. Then I would return to the familiar halls of Hogwarts where I fit in, if only by deception.

 

Irritation twisted at the base of my neck, and I fought back the urge to scowl. If Dumbledore saw me meeting with them now...the game could end as soon as it had begun. I would not lose my place here.

 

I held my breath, and went. I would come out on top; I always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, we have another conversation with Dumbledore, who answers at least one question; he sort of trusts Tom to not kill anyone. Tom admits to being a Horcrux. What does Dumbledore plan? (We also see Tom with other Slytherins...)
> 
> Action next chapter. I’m editing and rewriting like mad. Encourage me please? ♥


	10. Targetted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom goes after a voice in the dark, and finds rather more than he bargains for. Harry saves him. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an **action** (this chapter) and then **exposition/ info-dump** (next) chapter. Proceed with caution. ; ) Also, the chapter title belongs to JKR: she is clever. Very clever. ♥
> 
> (BTW This chapter takes place same day as Chapter 8, just later in the evening.)

Chapter 10: Targetted

(Tom)

The corridor stretched before me, sending back strange echoes from seemingly every nook and cranny. But one noise stood out from the rest-- footsteps. I paused to make sure, and sure enough, I heard them. The faintest trace of whoever was trailing me.

Whoever it was didn't follow so cleverly either-- they barely waited for me to clear the corner before opening the portrait again.

There was a muttered flurry of words as the culprit cast a stealth spell over their feet to soften the tread, but nothing to muffle the swishing of his or her robes.

One student. Not so clever.

Carefully, I listened for sounds of others in the castle. Anyone near enough to confuse my pursuer. I needed to meet Voldemort's messengers _without_ an audience.

I conjured a rock, and levitated it up the stairs, hoping that the foolish Slytherin would mistake the noise for my own footsteps.

“What the-- what's this?” 

“You don't suppose...” 

“I do, brother,” I recognized the voices of the Weasley twins. They quickly hushed one another. I stayed back, watching my handiwork.

Aha. It was the Malfoy boy. How sneaky he probably imagined himself, and yet how simple it was to trap him.　Malfoy scurried by on silent feet, but the Weasley twins were wiser; his furtive glances wouldn't catch them until it was too late.

“Got ‘im!” one gloated. I thought it might be Fred; he was the louder one.

“Well, if it isn't Mister Malfoy...” George laughed outright. “What are you doing in the halls, without your gorilla bodyguards?”

Malfoy, I saw, edging to the right so that I could see a shadow on the wall-- was caught in some sort of magical rope trap. The first twin said a spell to further bind his legs, and Malfoy spat out a furious howl of complaint. The tickling curse, which had enjoyed a revival among the upper year students after one Harry Potter used it on Lockhart in class, echoed after me, and Malfoy laughed hysterically. Who would have guessed he was so ticklish.

I resolved to take another set of stairs.

 _Come,_ the voice called, and I heeded.

“ _We will talk within the castle walls, servant. I cannot risk being caught outdoors once more._ ” I cautioned. “ _Meet me in a private place, free from students and teachers, but not the Chamber... follow me._ ” I suggested. 

The voice urged me on, leading me to a place closer and closer to Myrtle's bathroom, and the entrance to the Chamber. All the while, I attempted to　move us to an empty classroom.

I finally caught sight of the snake-- it was huge in comparison to any snake I'd known in my childhood, and its green scales practically glistened with magic. I watched it intently—especially the business-end with all the teeth.

Then something strange happened. It was rather like noticing my surroundings for the first time; oddly aware of as far as my vision spread, and more, I could feel a keen eye on me. The back of my neck prickled with the sensation. There was the sound of glass breaking-- thick shards of it flying forward as though making an all-new storm. I shielded my eyes with my arms just as something hit me. I staggered, tried to duck.  
I had my wand out, shouting “Stupefy!”

Feathers. Wings closed in around me-- and sharp talons bit into my shoulder. The spell had no effect. I followed swiftly with a Dark Arts defensive spell.

But it was hard to take aim when the target was directly behind-- the weight lifted off my feet. I realized, shocked, that I was being taken away.

I screamed a curse, no longer caring if another student heard. The beast which held me felt strange-- a sort of bloodcurdling, repulsive pull that set my teeth on edge. Its arms were coarse and thick, like a wild animal's hide. And yet the wings were dark, charcoal black. I found that if I leaned back even a little, a feather would cut my cheek on its edge. 

I stared into its beady red eyes, and felt a foreboding sense of recognition. I opened my mouth to speak, but the beast brutally rammed me into the wall. With the collision, I saw white—

\--and then nothing at all.

* * *

Not long after dinner, Harry Potter antagonized his housemates, trying to find someone-- anyone-- willing to listen to his suspicions about Voldemort. Harry sat down next to Neville on the sofa. His usual targets, Ron and Hermione, had disappeared to do other things, and so he was left with the Marauder's Map tucked under a bit of homework, occasionally glancing at it surreptitiously as Neville tried to talk Ginny out of doing something-or-other.

“We can teach ourselves. All we need is a place to practice... With some actual practical practice, we stand a chance,” Ginny was saying.

“I don't know... I'll come for sure when we have a place, but you probably shouldn't attach my name to it or anything... Really, I think Harry would be a good leader...” Neville chewed his lip.

Harry looked up when his name was mentioned.

“We can take turns teaching-- whoever is good at a spell can take a turn teaching everyone else. I bet there's some spell you could show all of us...” Ginny said this last part hesitantly, as though even she weren't sure if it was true. She pulled absently at the corner of her robes.

“Not everyone is cut out for teaching.” Neville insisted quietly.

Harry added, “They say that you remember things better if you teach it. Not sure who 'they' are, though…” He watched the names on the map move about the castle, the stragglers finally leaving the Great Hall. Even the library occupants seemed to be making their ways to where Harry assumed the other three common rooms were. 

Ginny shook her head impatiently. “This isn't about who’s good at teaching. It's about sharing information. We could muddle through, I'm sure.” She insisted. “I mean, what do we need a leader for anyway?”

Harry flipped to the Ravenclaw tower. “Did Luna find her mulberry worms, by the way? Silk worms, I mean." 

Ginny gave him an exasperated look. “She mentioned something about them, yes, but I don't know if she's keeping it. She could just be watching it.” Then she turned back to Neville. “For example, I'm good at hexes, and you're good at...at persevering. Or something.”

Harry grinned at that from behind his parchment. Neville sighed, but said nothing to defend his honor. Apparently he didn't think tending various plants to be useful in a DADA club. Harry decided to save him from replying. “Riddle is in the Slytherin common room.” he announced.

Neville groaned quietly. “Riddle again.”

“Yup. Riddle. Do you think he's here on a secret mission?”

Ginny looked both exasperated by his word choice and pleased to be included on a conversation that'd normally be between Harry and his two best friends. “You mean, what do you think his objective is?”

“Voldemort is looking for a weapon.” He insisted. At Neville's alarmed expression, he quickly explained. “Obviously. There aren't enough people who would follow him openly, so he needs to show he's not a half-dead ghost. Or at the very least, that he's got a trump card. Aside from himself... having been given a new body last May...”

He peeked at Tom's name again. The little black dot was still stubbornly sitting still.

“You don't think there's something here at Hogwarts.” Ginny asked.

“There was my first year-- the Philosopher's Stone.” Harry explained.

Neville looked doubtful. “Not this year, though. Not with Umbridge in and out of the castle.”

“Maybe he's here as a distraction.” Harry admitted finally. “Maybe the door has more to do with the weapon than...than whatever else.”

Neville and Ginny exchanged glances.

Ginny gave him another impatient look that rather reminded Harry of Molly Weasley. “That's good. So. Back to what I was saying...we need space to practice. Any ideas?”

Harry let their voices slide over him, and drew his legs up and under. It wouldn't be hard to nap at all. He only had to...relax…Harry fell into a light sleep, and gradually a deeper one.  
_His dreams began to replay his first two weeks back in Hogwarts, showing him Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, and Luna, all sitting around the Gryffindor common room. Their hearts were beautiful and bare on chests, a golden light encompassing the red organ. Every time Harry opened his mouth, his words took form—strange, misshapen things that shot out like hammers._

_Ginny and Luna held up a mirror for Harry to see and began talking to his reflection. “You’re old Harry.” They told the mirror. “You used to be like this.”_

_“But I’m not.” said the-Harry-who-stood, ignored-before-them. But the mirror only grinned._

_“You used to give us loads of things. Sweets, Omnioculars, and adventures. Why can’t you anymore?”_

_“If you don’t give them back the old Harry,” Fred and George stepped up beside him. The other twin picked up from there, “they might transfer to Slytherin.”_

_“Or worse.” Fred looked serious. “They might transfer_ you _to Slytherin.”_

 _“But Luna isn’t even in Gryffindor.” Harry started to say, and their faces all swirled together to become the teachers’ faces. Snape, Lockhart, and Umbridge. Then they swirled together again, and the dream changed._

…the dream changed…

 _Harry slithered, his belly pressed tight against the pipes. He bent and twisted through the narrow passageways. The pipes were cold against his skin, uncomfortable, and there were many warm bodies not far beneath him. But he must stay hidden—he had important work to do.  
_ Come. _he demanded. It walked slowly, carefully._ Come, child. We mussst return. _Harry paused, waiting impatiently for It to come, but still It lingered._

_At last, Harry emerged from the pipes, and he smelled danger on the air—familiar, yet rank with consumption. Harry paused, his tongue flicking in and out of his mouth. Harry waited, confused. Did he know it? He might…_

_It too called out. A Speaker of the tongue…a parselmouth._

_Suddenly, Harry realized it was wrong—all wrong._ Ssstop. Come with me. Quietly, through the dark place. _But the foolish Child-It took one step too many, and it was overtaken. It crumpled like prey whose neck had been snapped._ No. _It was no longer moving, no longer seeking Harry out. Harry slithered toward the opening, his powerful coils propelling him out. He reached, snapped at the ends of the Other, and called one last time to It._

Harry’s head hurt. His scar hurt. It was all-consuming, radiating from one point; he couldn’t forget, but he couldn’t concentrate either. 

“Harry!”

His head. Hurt. 

“Are you all right?” Neville was inches from Harry, his face a caricature of worry. “You were yelling.”

“I saw—” Harry gasped the words out, but then stopped. What _had_ he seen? His eyes whirled about the common room, searching the faces there. Most were turned to him, staring openly. Some whispered. Others glared. He sprang to his feet as the door opened. 

“Guess who we found!” Fred Weasley crowed as he ducked through the portrait hole. 

“Tom Riddle.” Harry gasped. “Something’s attacked him.”

“What?” A beat. “No, it wasn’t Riddle. Little Malfoy, going up the stairs, chasing a rock…”

“We got him gooood.” Fred laughed. “Anyone fancy taking a stone for a walk?” His twin pulled a face, and a few people gave weak laughs, but most still looked at Harry.

“I saw him.” Harry said. “Something attacked him.” 

“Nope.” George grinned. “Definitely Malfoy. And you weren’t there!” He took a few steps forward, hands clasping Harry on the shoulder and the other’s ruffling his hair before Harry ducked out of his grip and out of reach of the older Weasley—a skill born of evading Dudley for fifteen years. 

“He’s really didn’t appreciate our Tickling Hex.” Fred announced to the room at large, smoothly covering Harry’s retreat. Harry was halfway to the portrait hole before anyone started to move after him. 

Harry’s speed was unmatched as he propelled himself carelessly down the corridor. _The snake. Voldemort’s snake._ He used Knock-Back spells to clear an unfamiliar prefect out of his way as he careened through the Castle. “No time. No time!” Harry muttered. 

“Harry!” Ginny shouted after him. 

There. _Too late, too late. It’s got to be flying away by now._ “Accio Firebolt!” His broom flew down from his dormitory and through the hall until it matched his pace. Harry leapt astride it. 

Then there it was. The huge snake, glistening green in his eyes and larger than it had any right to be, snapped at the talons of a monster. He pulled out his wand, fired a “Stupefy!” at it, but he was much too far away. Instead, he gave away his position, and the gigantic snake slithered impossibly fast back into the pipes. Of course, the pipes. But Harry couldn’t worry about the snake. He had to catch the beast—the thing flying. 

Ginny was on the stairs, leaning precariously out a window to get a look at the figure in the dim light. She aimed with her whole body, throwing herself into a spell that shot through the night. It ricocheted off the walls and toward the very spot the snake disappeared into. Pretty. Like a bolt of lightning or a leaping spider, but Harry couldn’t follow that thought. 

“The snake’s gone.” Harry told her. “There’s something else—something outside. That snake. She’s Voldemort’s. The other thing? They didn’t come together, but it’s like…it’s like Voldemort.” He raced to get the words out, to make her understand, to somehow simplify the message that was hidden in the vision. Harry still felt half snake, and wondered if she wasn’t understanding because he was somehow speaking Parseltongue and not English. _Too late, too late._

But it wasn’t too late. Outside the window, a brilliant light filled the sky. Harry leaped onto his Firebolt once more. He fell through the air for full seconds, before pulling up just as he saw Riddle holding a wand—holding a wand! But it wasn’t the twin wand, Harry knew in an instant. 

Everything seemed so much simpler with that revelation. Voldemort’s creature was trying to take Tom away. Tom who had a different wand, and so could not be Voldemort. Harry felt a sudden kinship with Tom, as though they had shared an experience in the graveyard. Now he too had been stolen away, like a child from a fairy tale. But of course, that was ridiculous. Tom wasn’t even in the castle during the Tasks. 

Riddle screamed himself hoarse, doing something to tear his hands. It was to no avail, tho, and he was borne farther away. The castle seemed alive; the Whomping Willow swayed in an unnatural way, and the wind seemed like a gale. Strange singing voices; a host on the air called out to him. _Remember the words you and I spoke down in the meadow by the world’s end._ He thought. (*1) 

Harry was close enough to see the Beast now. It was a huge, hulking thing—more bestial than humanoid, though it had arms. Its wings were gray, and it seemed like a figure and Hippogryph hybrid. But the human part was bloated past recognition, and its red beady eyes reminded him only of one person’s.

“I know you.” He said to it, and the wind carried his words. 

“Harry Potter.” It replied, and a terrible pitiless smile overtook it. _The beast slouches toward Bethlehem,_ Harry thought. (*2) 

Harry held his wand aloft, but before he uttered a single spell, the Beast moved.It dropped Riddle, who cast a cushioning charm as he fell from deadly heights.

Near the forest at the edge of his sight, there was something down below, toward the wavering forest that edged in on his sight. It whispered. What was it? The beast answered some unnatural call, and fairly danced away as though led on by the Pied Piper. Then Harry saw him; the skeletally thin, pale figure of Voldemort, bathed in moonlight and hidden among the trees. He was gone in an instant, so quickly that Harry doubted that he’d ever been there at all.

Harry was torn; should he find Tom and retreat, or chase after and—and what? Duel him again? His thoughts raced again, individual words fluttering like leaves and leaving him nothing to say. Fortunately there was no one to talk to anyway.

Behind him, a deep and powerful voice was calling out from Hogwarts—Dumbledore, aglow in light and compassion—but there was no easily understood spell. Harry saw no moving gargoyles (for there was no need), no air cast into flames, for Tom Riddle was safely on the ground, hurrying further into the shadow of the castle. 

It was then Harry saw the faces of many curious students staring out the window. He maneuvered his broom toward Tom. He dove fast enough to make his skin prickle and senses soar—and he caught up with the boy. Tom Riddle only scowled in his face. Harry smiled at that. 

They walked the last of the distance together. 

In front of them, Snape held his wand tightly, his expression unreadable. He ushered them in with a quiet, “Inside. Now.” He was about to slam the door shut.

“Wait, Severus!” someone squeaked. Panic edged Professor Lockhart’s bright tones, and Snape rolled his eyes but stilled his hands. Lockhart rushed inside and pulled at his robes to straighten them. “Just in from the forest.” He gasped as Harry and Tom stared at him.

“You?” Harry asked, incredulous. The forest—that’s where Voldemort was. “But you aren’t a--” 

Lockhart drew himself up. “Yes! I bravely fought off the strange and compelling beasties, and with just the right combination of spells, I swept the Kindly Ones from the trees!” He laughed, but the sound was nervous. 

“Not an owl or a pigeon.” Harry concluded. 

Snape eyed Lockhart disdainfully. “Did you.” This time he did slam the door, and no one else so much as looked at the blond professor. 

“We need to sweep the forest!” Professor McGonagall said crisply. “Riddle is saying that some Dark Wizards nearly swept him off the grounds.” She sniffed. 

Snape’s hands closed around both boys’ shoulders. Harry wasn’t sure if it was to usher them in or frighten them. “All students to bed. It’s past time for them to be in their common rooms.” 

McGonagall nodded tersely. Behind her, more professors made their way around Tom and Harry, and finally, Harry saw him. Professor Dumbledore had come down the far stairs, and he was smiling gently over his half-moon glasses. He didn’t meet Harry’s eyes. 

Harry thought, inexplicably, of his dream. His friends would look at the mirror him, but not the real Harry before them. 

“Ah yes, I will send them to bed. As soon as we have a word. Harry? Mr. Riddle? If you would.” Professor Dumbledore asked serenely. 

They followed him up the stairs, and Harry thought again of Child Roland as he looked at Tom by his side. _Without a word more, Child Roland out with his good brand, and off went his head._

“What have you come to Hogwarts for?” Harry asked, brushing the fairy tale aside. “ _Why_ , when Voldemort obviously wants you elsewhere?” 

Tom gave a show of contempt, but his eyes were too wide for it to be successful. “Into the tower we go, brave Child Harry.” He said softly, and Harry was startled to think that Tom knew his mind. “We’ve got a Wizard to listen to first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*1: A quote from "The Well of the World's End" an English Fairy Tale)
> 
> Summary of fairy tale: There once was a girl whose father remarried. Because the girl was more beautiful than the stepmother, the stepmother treated her badly and asked the girl to complete impossible tasks. One of these tasks was to retrieve water in a sieve from the well of the world's end. By being kind to the people around her, she discovers where the well is. But when she gets there, because the vessel is a sieve (commonly called a 'sifter' or 'strainer'), she cannot carry the water back. She weeps, and a voice calls to her from the well, promising to teach her how to carry water back if she promises. 'Well,' said the frog, 'if you promise me to do whatever I bid you for a whole night long, I'll tell you how to fill it.' She promises, and the frog follows her home. Seeing the daughters discomfort in keeping her word to the frog, the Stepmother maliciously reminds her to obey her promise. All ends well, for when the frog can eat at her table, sleep in her bed, and when finally, his head is chopped off, he is revealed to be... a prince, of course.
> 
> (*2) Full quote: “Its gaze blank and pitiless as the sun. . .And what rough beast, its hour come at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?” ~W. B. Yeats. (The brilliant Irish poet. Title: _The Second Coming._ Also,  disclaimer: I am not brilliant enough to make this connection. A college professor (Thomas: Repotting Potter) did.)
> 
> *coughs* anyway. Thoughts?


	11. he won't meet your eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore takes Tom and Harry into his office for a much-needed talk after Tom has nearly been borne away by Nagini and the mysterious beast. Mid-to-end of September.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer Note: Tonks and Polyjuiced-to-look-like-another-Auror Moody’s conversation is very close to JKR’s dialogue in the Order of the Phoenix, chapter 22 “St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries”), and there’s a direct quote from Dumbledore too. :) We’ve been diverging from canon all along though, though, so I hope you enjoy the differences.
> 
> Longer note on time... This chap is same day (much later that evening) as before: second weekend of September, as stated in chapter 9 . 10 was after dinner, and 11 is even later after dinner until the page break, after the weekend finishes. It is now the end of september (3rd week ish)

**Chapter 11:** _he won't meet your eyes_

The three of them stood in the Headmaster’s office. Dumbledore paced, touching a finger to a silver instrument. He cast a casual gaze at the portraits.

“Tom isn’t Voldemort.” Harry told Dumbledore firmly. 

“Correct.” Dumbledore agreed. “Harry, what you did today was very brave. You did you utmost to save even your enemy… that capacity in you is truly remarkable.” 

Harry couldn’t help but feel that would feel more complementary if Dumbledore would meet his gaze. Harry felt confused by the evening’s sudden turnaround. The vision, seeing the snake and the Beast—everything Harry had assumed seemed turned on its head. He desperately wanted the Headmaster to explain things—for the night to make sense. He chewed his lip and closed his eyes, searching for something to grasp onto. 

“However, I need to know how you knew what was happening. What did you see, Harry?” 

Tom made a small noise in the back of his throat. He shifted uncomfortably, and Harry noticed that he still gripped his wand. 

“What kind of wand is that?” Harry asked, partially to help the headmaster notice that Tom was, in fact, still holding a dangerous weapon. Still awash in emotions, he waited for Tom to either attack, or explain. Tom did neither. Instead, the Slytherin pursed his lips, and put his wand away.

Harry wondered if the Headmaster’s question somehow meant that he _knew_ Harry had seen something. Or did he mean for Harry to report on what he saw by the forest? “Before everything tonight… you see, I was asleep in the common room. But it’s like it wasn’t a dream. I saw it happen,” Harry took a deep breath. “I saw Tom being flown away.” 

Dumbledore leaned forward. “How did you see it? What was your perspective?” 

Harry felt his brow furrow and he gave the headmaster a sharp look. Was Dumbledore questioning that he saw anything? “I was the snake…” 

“Are you quite certain you two should be having this conversation with me here?” Tom’s voice was low and distrusting.　

 _Or maybe,_ Harry thought, _he’s sullen as a snake denied food._

“So sorry to have excluded you, Mr. Riddle. But Harry has seen something… and at this time, no, I don’t think we need worry about keeping you in the dark. Voldemort himself has already made that mistake with you, wouldn’t you agree?”

Harry paused, unwilling to talk about the dream now. Sullen or not, snakes could be dangerous spies.

“Your dreams have been very instructive in the past, Mr. Potter.” Dumbledore admonished gently. He looked not at Harry’s eyes, but somewhere between his scar and his hairline. 

When Harry didn’t reply, Tom cocked his head and asked, “What sorts of dreams have you had in the past?”

“I dreamed you were coming.” Harry said, knowing that it was true. “On the train to Hogwarts, I dreamed of you in the forest. Today, I felt it when you were taken; when your head was beaned against the wall.” _I suppose it’s good that snakes are so hard to break._ He thought. _All those coils._

Unexpectedly, Dumbledore stood at this. “Begging your pardon.” 

Dumbledore approached the younger boy, and Tom shrank back until he realized what Dumbledore meant to do. He submitted reluctantly to let Dumbledore part Tom’s hair, searching for signs of a wound.

When Dumbledore found it, as with all of his magic, the healing charm was understated; no bangs or smoke. The only visible effect was the surprised relief that flitted across Tom’s face. “See Madam Pomfrey before bed. Quickly, mind, before our dear Superintendent catches word of tonight’s events.” 

Tom looked up into Dumbledore’s eyes, not showing anything but a tightening of the jaw. “Tonight or another night, the Ministry will find out about me, and then what will you do?” he asked, mocking. 

Dumbledore looked at him sadly. “I will not let you go so easily, Mr. Riddle. Harry, please. Your dream.” There was steel in the Headmaster’s words.

Dumbledore _still_ looked elsewhere. Harry felt inexplicably irritated, even as he did as he was told. “I saw a snake. There were dirty feathers and a Greedy Beastie.” Harry shook his head firmly. He paused as he recalled the vivid dream. “I was in the pipes… and calling him to return… but then something I didn’t expect—some other creature—carried him away, and I was angry. I tried to bite it…”

Finally, Dumbledore moved to sit in his chair, “Tom may have been sent here for nefarious purposes, but he is not in fact evil.” 

Harry nodded impatiently. 

“I’m a ‘second chance.’” Tom said quietly, his eyes flashing. His expressions, always unreadable, seemed too dark to be as innocent as his words suggested. 

“And everyone’s memory?” Harry prompted.

“How could the student body accept a child like him, knowing he was connected with Voldemort?” Dumbledore asked. “To give Tom a proper chance, we needed a fresh slate. Voldemort already instructed him in the art of memory modifications, it seems, but it wasn’t quite enough to hoodwink myself. He needed someone on the inside.”

“What about Snape? Does he know?” Harry asked quickly, heat rising to his face; anger turned in his stomach, clashing with and accentuating the need to _bite._

Dumbledore leaned heavily into his chair. “Professor Snape, Harry. Yes. He knows.” He did not say how much.

“Whose side are you on?” Harry asked Tom suspiciously.

“I’m not on anyone’s side.” Tom said quietly, but his voice was low and charged with venom, twisting his lips. “I’m on my side. I want to know about my past, and about my creation. Hogwarts is the best place to do that.” Harry scowled, and Tom smiled coldly. “The Dark Lord thinks that I’m only an extension of him…he would order me around like any one of his lackeys.” 

“Right.” Harry looked back to Dumbledore. There had been another dream. “Did you know about Voldemort inviting the Dementors, and that thing with long hair?” 

Dumbledore pushed his glasses back up his long nose. “Severus mentioned something to that effect, yes. Giants too, it seems.”

“I wanted to tell you about my dream. But you’re not looking at me.” Magic sparked in the air at that, and Harry fidgeted, holding back the volatile anger—the sudden need to lunge forward and bite the headmaster. For an instant, the feeling overwhelmed him. Like he was still the snake, still fighting the impulse to strike out at any warm-blooded prey before him. It burned his skin.

Tom looked at Harry quizzically. “So it was the snake that called me. Not the… ‘beastie,’ as you say. What did you see in the Dementor vision?”

“It’s not a vision.” Harry said quickly, reeling. “It was a dream, and no, I didn’t see the dirty-feather thing. But it confused the snake—”

“Nagini.” Tom interrupted. “It confused her?”

“Yes. She thought it was familiar. Sort of…like you? No. Maybe she was reacting _to_ you.” Harry rubbed his scar absently, and clenched his jaw, urging the anger, the bloodlust down. 

Tom considered Harry and the Headmaster in turn. “I see...”

“I hope,” Dumbledore said evenly, “that you could help us shed some light on the matter, Tom. You have a unique perspective, it is true, but you also have a uniquely sharp and quick mind to rival anyone’s.”

Harry frowned lightly, a prick of jealousy rearing in him. He wasn’t sure about what Dumbledore said, and privately thought that Tom’s ‘unique perspective’ came from the other boy being just-on-this-side of evil. “Keep thinking about wings and feathers.” Harry advised quietly, saying the first thing that leapt into his mind. “And be on the lookout for Dementors. Can you cast a Patronus?”

Dumbledore looked suitably impressed by this question, and his expression turned thoughtful again. Much of the sadness left him as he planned aloud. “Yes. A Patronus...but more than that, Harry, you need to learn to cast other protections. You must learn to keep your mind separate from Voldemort’s-- now more than ever.”

“Why don’t you tell us what your network knows instead, Dumbledore.” Tom gestured to the portraits of previous headmasters on the wall. One wizard’s snore suddenly seemed to sound like an indignant snort. “I certainly never heard anything about the thing that took me... I have no idea what it was.”

Harry was overwhelmed with a sense of vertigo. He saw Dumbledore take out a silver instrument, though Harry was watching Fawkes on the opposite side of the room. Once Harry gave a small gasp, he saw himself as Tom turned his gaze onto Harry. He saw as Tom saw him: a dark haired boy halfway between leaping from his chair. 

He felt an intense feeling-- distrust, suspicion and curiosity-- and then surprise. Tom’s dark eyes met Harry’s. _Does he know my origin?_ Tom seemed to be saying. Harry couldn’t help but react. He took a quick breath. Then he had the sense of being _pushed_...

Dumbledore watched this silent exchange even as he tapped the instrument with his wand. The older wizard’s gaze was unfocused as he moved to stand, watching the smoke that streamed from the instrument. The smoke was hazy, something between silver and green. Slowly, it took form, solidifying to a shape-- a wide, wide mouth, and slits for eyes. A snake.

“That’s what I saw. That is Nagini.” Tom confirmed.

Dumbledore did not meet Tom’s eyes either. He watched the smoke. “Naturally, naturally,” murmured Dumbledore apparently to himself, still observing the stream of smoke without the slightest sign of surprise. “But in essence divided?” (*direct quote)

Harry didn’t have a clue what the headmaster meant by that. _Divided loyalty. Divided issues. Divided portions of chocolate..._

The smoke serpent convulsed at that moment. It was ripped in two by unseen force. Twin snakes coiled in the air before Dumbledore. Both sets of snake eyes watched him. Dumbledore sighed, gave the instrument a forceful tap, and the smoke snakes vanished.

Harry waited not-so-patiently.

Dumbledore looked up to glance at the two students. “I’m afraid I’m just as in-the-dark on the matter as you, Tom. In the meantime, please attend your classes. Get to know your classmates. As for you, Harry? I shall arrange for private lessons.”

“Lessons, sir?” Harry’s mouth felt like cotton. He felt another dizzying swell of confusion, and a harsh jolt of suspicion. His hands clenched.

“Yes, yes...” Dumbledore said half to himself. Fawkes flew over to him, and Dumbledore pet his head. “I believe you need to learn from Professor Snape.” He gave Tom a long, considering look, as though struggling with a difficult decision. “Professor Snape will teach you, Harry, to close your mind to unwelcome sources. I’m sure he shall be most instructive. Please set you considerable talents to learning what he has to teach you,” Dumbledore said airily.

Beside him, Harry felt Tom stiffen. _Maybe a feather got stuck in his hair. I bet it would pull, with all those iron-colored strings. Maybe cut with the edge too._ He turned to look at Tom, meeting his gaze experimentally. 

_…would be so easy to dupe._ Tom seemed to whisper, and Harry knew the subject of that thought to be himself.

“You think I’m stupid?” Harry demanded. “You think it’s only blind luck that had me survive so many encounters with Voldemort?” He shook his head, and again the anger seemed to clear a lot of the fuzziness from his mind. 

“Why would you think that?” Tom asked slowly, his whole body lying as it seemed to say, _I’m harmless_.

“You’re the stupid one.” Harry snipped. “Dumbledore trusts you. Voldemort wants you.”

“And you?” Tom goaded.

“Dumbledore-- if you knew Tom was sent by Voldemort-- why didn’t you spell me too? If you’re going to say that no one would give poor Tommy a chance, why not make me give him one too? How could you have known that I’d save him from the Beast?” Harry felt his voice rise, felt his fists clench.

“Manners, boy-- why in my day, students showed the headmaster some respect. Dumbledore, this _student_ is in need of some discipline,” a headmaster broke in. Dumbledore waved a hand to silence him.

“Harry, you needed to keep your memories. It is vital. I have said before that within you there is great capacity to love; that you can love and forgive even your enemy. This is your greatest strength. I could not take that away from you.”

Harry felt the eyes of the former headmaster portraits on him. He turned around to catch them in the act, but they quickly went back to feigning sleep, except for the one. The one headmaster swished his switch-like wand menacingly. He watched them for a minute. 

“So what have I learned tonight?” Harry’s eyes found Tom’s. “You let him fend for himself, and what have I learned? Tom resents Voldemort, and you want me to forgive them both.” 

Harry wanted to add, _but _you_ aren’t doing anything to protect us!_ but he couldn’t get the words out. Wasn’t Dumbledore protecting him? Weren’t they safe because Dumbledore was the only wizard Voldemort had ever feared?

“I am sorry. So very sorry.” Dumbledore replied, folding in on himself a little. He looked older in the candlelight; preoccupied with unknown burdens. 

Harry sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair. Even after this night, this terribly long night, he wanted to trust Dumbledore. He _did_ trust Dumbledore. “I think I’m going to trust you, Riddle. At least not to give Voldemort information. Seeing that you apparently can’t while in the castle, I almost trust you more than Snape...” Harry chewed his lip, suddenly aware that he was babbling.

“When we are old, we see mostly our mistakes. So I wish to help Tom. But surely you see, Harry, that no one can truly save another soul. That is one thing, we must save ourselves.” 

Tom narrowed his eyes, and considered the headmaster. Harry noticed that he was swaying on his feet. 

“Please see that Tom stops by the nurse discretely, Harry.” Dumbledore added, clearly dismissing the two of them. 

Tom’s usual grace left him as he stiffly made for the exit. Harry followed at a distance.

“Quietly. Your injuries might cause unwanted bureaucratic eyes to follow.” Dumbledore’s soft voice carried down the spindly stairs.

“Like we could avoid it,” Tom muttered. “You saw all those students staring out the windows after me…” 

Harry struggled to gather his thoughts. At some length, he realized he’d followed Tom down the hall in the correct direction. “So. You didn’t go back to him... why? Is it really because you can’t stand to be your own lackey?” Harry wondered if maybe there was a better way to phrase this question.

Tom snorted. “I am my own person. Dumbledore is too crafty to trust me exactly, but he knows enough not to throw me out...”

Harry considered this. “Why? It’s not like you could do anything to anyone in Hogwarts from outside the walls.” At least, the other Death Eaters hadn’t. Except for Lucius and the diary. And Sirius, who had brought Dementors to the school, though he wasn’t even a proper Death Eater. And Barty Crouch who had done…something or other to protect his son. Not to mention Barty Crouch Jr, who was technically in the school most of the time. “Er. Well. Not much. And not often.” he amended.

Tom chuckled darkly. “It’s not what I could do,” he quipped, “but what the Dark Lord could do _with_ me.” His shoulders were tense, and his chin held stiffly. “Dumbledore doesn’t think highly of my magical skills; you can see it in the way he talks. However, he thinks given enough time, the Dark Lord could use me to raise his own powers considerably.”

Harry considered this. “You don’t know that for sure.” He stopped to let Tom get ahead of him, looking for stray feathers to snatch or a glimpse of his missing mirror.

“Accio Harry’s two-way mirror,” Harry tried. He kept his eyes locked on Tom, looking for obvious signs of guilt.

Tom flushed. 

“You _do_ have it.” Harry remarked. “Give it here.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tom said stiffly. He paused, looking into Harry’s angry face, and his lips twitched.

They bickered about it all the way to Madam Pomfrey’s.

“Mr. Riddle!” Madam Pomfrey greeted them loudly. “Come to see me at last, have you? You’re as bad as the rest of them, allowing the headmaster to whisk you away without so much as a diagnostic spell. Sit here.” 

Tom, looking slightly overwhelmed, did as he was told.

Madam Pomfrey waved her wand before Riddle and settled her attention to his head. “Are you experiencing any dizziness, nausea, or blurriness of vision?” she asked as she took out her wand.

Harry, who hadn’t passed the threshold to the Hospital Wing proper, watched apprehensively. He was soon distracted by a hand on his shoulder. 

Fred Weasley looked at Harry, a pained expression on his face. “Oh, are you escorting an injured student as well? It really seems these Slytherins are having a bad night,” he said. His tone was more convincing than the concerned expression he had fixed on Harry’s face. “Found Malfoy hexed in the hallway... right after you flew the coop.”

“They’re the ones who hexed me!” Malfoy called out from somewhere behind drawn curtains. Harry squinted at the most suspicious drape. 

“Did not! We found you on the stairs. Never touched a hair on your head, now did we?” George argued.

“Quiet!” Madam Pomfrey said angrily. “Sit down, Mr. Riddle. Something attacked you?”

Just then, the usual Gryffindor crowd appeared at the hospital wing door. “Harry! Why did you run off like that? Professor Lockhart is saying someone transfigured a student and attacked Riddle. Harry, you can’t-- you _didn’t_ ,” Hermione said fretfully.

Madam Pomfrey shook her head at whatever diagnosis she made, for she headed in a straight line toward the potions cabinet. She didn’t appear to hear much of what the new students were saying, but instead muttered to herself and flicked her wand about to do various Hospital Wing things.

“If Harry did anything to Riddle, I’m sure he deserved it!” Ginny said loudly. She was right behind the other Gryffindors as they corralled Harry toward Riddle.

Harry scowled, exasperated. “Don’t touch me.” He snapped, but the conversation flowed around him as though he hadn’t said anything.

Ron, looking more frustrated and red in the face than Harry remembered him, said, “Harry didn’t! He wouldn’t have had time.”

Hermione calmed noticeably at that, a thoughtful expression overcoming her. “Oh. But the broom...? Yes. I suppose...” She trailed off.

“In fact, Harry came out a misguided sense of duty. He was trying to rescue me. Not that I need rescuing...” Tom said, trying for an aristocratic air. He sounded mostly cautious.

“I don’t trust him.” Ginny muttered fiercely, her brown eyes flashing. “Riddle is clearly trying to give himself an alibi for something, or paint himself in a sympathetic light.”

“When did Professor Lockhart have time to make a statement? I thought he was meant to be searching the forest,” Harry frowned, sitting unceremoniously on one of the cots. That man never seemed to miss a moment to make a move to take the spotlight. Attack on a student? Lockhart would put himself in a position to inform on the situation, probably embellishing details and adding how his Expert Knowledge could have made things that much better.

“Right after the High Inquisitor got here,” Neville answered, hovering to the side nearest Harry’s cot. “She brought _Aurors._ ” Neville’s voice was bright with a kind of awe. “She kept raving about riot control or something…” 

“All of you, out!” Madam Pomfrey demanded, suddenly back from the supply cabinet. “I’m told we’re to have visitors, and it would not go well for you to remain. I’m sorry, Mister Potter, but you’ll have to see your friend in the morning.”

Harry snapped to attention at that, hopping up and striding over, thereby cutting the distance between them. “Madam Pomfrey,” he said urgently, “Professor Dumbledore said to be discrete. Tom can’t stay the night.”

She clearly didn’t see the Weasley twins hoisting themselves onto a cot bed, where they drew the curtains. As the twins moved, a familiar voice boomed near the hospital wing.

“Yes, yes, High Inquisitor.” Lockhart was saying, even as the Weasley twins debated the merits of one of them developing a need to stay in the hospital wing.

Harry froze, then darted to the left. He was reaching for another curtain when another door outside the Hospital Wing opened. Lockhart and Umbridge had gone into another room? Why? 

Madam Pomfrey clicked her tongue and nodded toward another door, making a very interesting face as she said, “Mister Riddle, please drink this potion and apply this cooling towel—it’s been charmed to the right temperature. Ask your house-mates to watch over you, Merlin help us all.” She shook her head. “I don’t like it, but I suppose you’ll be fine. Mister Weasley! The rest of you, out. Only Mister Malfoy shall be staying, I’m afraid.”

“Yes Madam Pomfrey.” Hermione replied stiffly, and she and Ron caught up to Harry, who led them stealthily out the door.

The Gryffindors were silent as they went into the hallway. As it was, they narrowly avoided being seen by Umbridge. Harry caught sight of pink hair, which he assumed belonged to Tonks. The Auror had positioned herself between the first of the corridors that led from the hospital wing to the Gryffindor hallway, while a man stood to the side. 

“Yes, yes...” the Popinjay Professor professed. “The students are saying it was a fight in the corridors that moved outdoors... There’s clearly no need for all this security. Why, I dare say, madam, that if there truly was an uprising, I could handle the situation for you! There was this time in the countryside where I single-handedly stopped a riot, you see...” 

“Just the same,” Umbridge hemmed. “I will keep my escort for my inspection tomorrow, professor. Do keep an eye on things for me until then... the Ministry thanks you for your cooperation.”

Tom, who managed to squeeze between Ron and Hermione to stand near Harry, touched two cool fingers to Harry’s wrist. 

The group kept walking until even the soft muffled echoes of the adults’ voices faded. “You’ll be all right going to the Slytherin Common Room?” Hermione asked bruskly. Tom nodded, his eyes laughing. “Good night then,” the prefect bade him.

“Be seeing you.” Tom said, and within moments was gone around another corner.

In the Gryffindor common room, they all sat around the fire in the assortment of squashy chairs. It was an awkward silence. They waited for the other students to filter out, to go to bed so they could talk freely. But perhaps their peers understood that, and so they lingered late into the night.

Harry searched the flames, thinking of Dumbledore’s smoke snake, and of Dumbledore’s trust in Tom. He told the Weasleys and Hermione what he knew very late in the evening after even the most stubborn student had abandoned them. It was a less awkward silence, but still an uneasy one then.

* * *

Harry was counting the bricks until the Charms classroom, listening vaguely for sounds of the Superintendent or other interlopers. He figured they’d be crawling around like ants, but in actuality, the halls were clear.

Harry vaguely remembered that the Ravenclaws shared a class with the Slytherins for charms this hour-- and Tom had promised to go to his classes, special-studies or no. Umbridge was likely to be there, too, Harry realized, and wondered if that meant Tom would be truant (to the irritation of his Head of House), or he would be minding his manners under the Toad’s nose. 

Being curious, Harry crept closer.

“This lesson about over, you reckon?” someone was saying. It was the Aurors. One of them was the Not-Owls from his “Vanguard” over the summer, Tonks. He wondered if she kept her dove-gray sock. 

“Waste of our time.” a deep voice growled in return. The other was the questionable Auror-- the same as the day before.

Interest peaked, Harry tread lighter still, stopping close enough to catch Tonk’s dutifully unobtrusive voice, and the other, low, rumbling one. “Dumbledore has let things go, this year.” The man continued. “Letting that Ministry woman on, and that fool Lockhart teach. Ever since he and Potter let You-Know-Who’s business be known to the general public, they’ve been trying to hush it up. And Dumbledore just lets them.”

Something about the man reminded Harry of Moody (the possibly real one from the Vanguard that summer). He frowned, wondering at that.

“You reckon that Potter kid has seer blood in him?” Tonks asked curiously.

The man laughed darkly. “Seer blood. Not likely.”

“Suppose not. He did see the present, and not the future...” Tonks mused.

“Everyone knows there’s something funny with the Potter kid.” The man said thickly. “Why wouldn’t he be worried? Potter is an observant kid, that’s for certain, but he’s seeing out of You-Know-Who’s snake. That’s practically admitting possession!”

Harry nearly tripped over his feet when he heard that. Harry backed away slowly, feeling the blood drain. He felt his heart race, his breath catch in his throat. The rest of the Auror’s conversation became white noise in his ears and the world seemed to be spinning. His skin felt prickly and hot, too tight for him and stretched thin in places. He couldn’t--- _wasn’t_ possessed. 

Harry struggled to remember to breath; to let the thoughts uncoil around him again.

“Harry?” someone asked lightly. He looked up into the clear blue eyes of Luna Lovegood, and stepped away from her hurriedly. _Not clean. Not right._ he thought desperately, _best not get close._

Luna watched him as he stepped away from her. “Is something the matter?”

“I’m fine,” he bit out. He lied even as he wondered if he were shivering. He finally understood. _That’s why Dumbledore doesn’t look at me... that’s why I knew Tom was taken. He’s already inside me. Voldemort is inside me._

He, Harry had controlled the snake, had maybe even controlled the Beast. Voldemort would use Harry-- was using Harry-- to get the weapon (Harry was sure it was Tom, now) from Hogwarts.

He turned away from Luna, barely hearing her, “Have the Nargles gotten inside again? You need to let them out, Harry Potter. Or they’ll start muddling your thoughts even more.”

Harry didn’t listen. Run. He would leave Hogwarts and not put himself in the position to help Voldemort get the weapon. He would leave. Harry stumbled as he ran, dislodging a suit of armor. Harry stared into the shiny surface and saw his own face reflected back. His eyes were wild, frightened. He did indeed look like a man possessed, or some kind of creature half mad with fear. 

_What do I do?_


	12. Into the Chamber and Occlumency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Harry overhears a conversation between Moody and Tonks, he assumes he's been possessed by Voldemort. Harry runs as far as he can-- but Snape and Tom won't allow it.

**Chapter 12:** Into the Chamber and Occlumency 

Harry's feet slammed against the stone floors. His ears rang with the noise, somehow feeling amplified. It was raining, wasn't it? He could hear a sound like water rushing over stones, slapping glass window panes and dancing on the flags, and he could hear a shout of laughter. There were too many students in the castle--where could he go?

Harry rubbed his eyes. He had something stuck in the corners, and he was increasingly aware of a headache building at the base of his neck. He had the feeling that if he pulled the skin up and pulled out the muscle, it might finally relax, but that thought was dangerous. He skittered around it as soon as he thought it.

As though from far away, he heard doors open-- class had ended?

 _Where can I go?_ Harry thought, desperate. _I can't stay here. I have to_ run. get away. He didn't know, but the feeling was there.

If Voldemort was using Harry to control the snake-- if Voldemort could see through Harry's eyes...

“Harry?” a younger Gryffindor called his name as he turned past the corridor. “Harry, Superintendent Umbridge is here today, so you better go back to the common room.” They said quickly-- and Harry recognized the boy as Collin Creevey—like Tom and Ginny, a fourth year.

“Collin, not right now...” Harry said, his eyes sliding over the boy. “You're not here.”

“Are you looking for Tom Riddle again?” Collin persisted. “The Slytherins are in Charms!” Harry's agitation bounced off him, as ever.

Harry swung his wand in a half-circle, discretely levitating the boy, checking for a disguise. Finding nothing, Harry closed his eyes and tried to think. What could Voldemort do with the information Harry had? Harry knew some of the Order members-- they had been coming in and out of Grimmauld Place during his brief stay there that summer...

Should he take his things? Harry felt a twinge in his stomach. He would have to leave his invisibility cloak, the one possession he had that had been his father’s... if Voldemort could control Harry, the invisibility cloak was too much power to give the Dark Lord. He chewed his lip as he swirled about on one foot, deciding to at least get a thick cloak. And perhaps his dream diary. Or his broom... 

A feeling of nostalgia overtook him as he crept up the moving staircase, making his way to the portrait hole. His senses seemed to work overload, just like they had when he had made midnight ventures to the fridge at the Dursley’s.

“Harry!” Collin's voice broke through. “You have to go. She's coming.”

Harry waved his hand, distracted. “I'm going.” Why didn't Collin just leave him alone?

Then Harry was halfway to the Tower and Collin's voice could no longer chase him. He thought of the ways he could secret his broom out-- but was it worth the risk? How many people had seen him flying to Tom's aid just yesterday?

Harry was just about to skip the Disappearing-Step when a voice stopped him in his tracks. “Potter, stay where you are.” Snape's voice was at once startling as it was steeped in loathing. “I have a message for you from the headmaster.” Snape's lip curled, as though being enlisted in message service was beneath him. _'What is this? Some new haunt for our hero of old?'_ his words were haunting, overlaid and whispering. _'Remember your promises, and remember mine.'_

Harry's lips moved, “What promise? What have you promised, Snape?” 

His head ached, and he wondered for the umpteenth time who Snape was fooling. Dumbledore, or Voldemort. Whose message was he delivering?

Snape quickly overtook Harry, with his longer legs and powerful stride. His robes _swished_ as he reached out to grab his shoulder. “I do _not_ understand the gibberish you insist on filling our ears with.” Snape snapped. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?” 

Harry remembered the feeling he felt in Dumbledore's office, like he had still been the snake. He wondered if he could stop himself in Voldemort bade him to tear into the pale and gaunt professor's throat. Visions of Snape's blood pouring from his neck overcame him, blocking all noise.

Snape scowled, exasperated, and his lips moved once more. Perhaps he was delivering the message, or perhaps he was saying something to make the snake stay back. Harry didn't know; he just felt the need to leave more strongly than before.

Running had always been his strong suit, after all. He ran in elementary school from Dudley, escaped into his Cupboard rather than have whatever mischief he'd caused be found out. Even after Hogwarts, Harry had run after he'd thought he would be expelled for the incident with his aunt. Nothing Snape said could keep him there, motionless on the stair.

Harry remembered the feeling of _wanting_ to be away so vividly that he ached with it, felt his limbs tingle and then (once, as a child) he was sitting somewhere else-- on top of the roof and far out of reach of his childhood enemies. He felt it again now, but the Hogwarts wards were thick, heavy, and aged-- the best he could do was duck under the Professor's arm, hop up over that thing on the floor, and roll before Snape could shoot a stunning spell or something at him.

He shot a look at Snape as he recovered his balance, and was rewarded with a pale, shocked expression that did not deserve to be on Snape's face. The nose just didn't suit the expression.

“Honor,” Harry told the portrait of the Fat Lady. He was fairly certain that was the password.

But the fat lady was not there. A sallow face stared back at him where there should be the plump and boisterous face of the usual portrait. He looked to the side to see the Fat Lady outside her usual space, watching Harry and the usurper-portrait with beady eyes. 

“Message for you from the headmaster.”

Harry glanced back at Snape, steadily climbing the stairs, and then met the portrait's eyes. “Let's have it then.”

“Stay where you are.” He pronounced. 

“I'm not moving,” Harry complained. “But Snape is. Please deliver the message.”

“That is it, you foolish boy. Dumbledore wants you to stay here,” 

Harry felt his mouth open, and then close. “That's it then? Nothing else?” A wave of dizziness overcame him, and he felt once again like he was at trial, trapped in an ornate owl's cage. His body felt numb and tingly. Why did Dumbledore send proxies? Why not tell Harry himself? “Why should I stay? Because Dumbledore says? Because the adults are going to take care of everything?”

Anger made the portrait look like Snape's calculating twin. He too seemed to be saying more than one thing at once. “Is it beyond you to show the respect the illustrious Professors of our fine school deserve? Must you make a spectacle of every imagined injustice?” As well as, ' _He gave her one, they gave him two. You gave us three or more. They all returned from him to you, though they were mine before._ ' (*1) 

“Harry Potter.” Snape said dangerously. “When a Professor of this school has something to say to you, _you will stay put and listen._ ” Again, he was standing right behind Harry, his presence a dark shadow on the periphery of Harry’s vision. 

Harry’s heart hammered in his throat. “Are you going to give me detention?” Harry demanded. “Umbridge would sink her teeth right into that, wouldn’t she?” He turned back to the portrait. “I said the password. Let me in.”

“The password has been changed,” the Fat Lady said, giving an ornate curtsey to the former headmaster in her portrait. “Ask a prefect for the new password.”

Harry clenched his hands into fists and glared up at Snape. “The Superintendent is in the castle.” Harry reminded him. “Nothing you say can will stay private, so you better just let me go. I need to go ask the mirrors and walls if they’ve seen any prefects, and beg the password off them.” 

“You are forbidden to leave, Potter. Stay holed away in your room or with the nurse if you must, but you _cannont_ run headlong into the Dark Lord’s clutches.” Snape said very quietly. 

“Are you saying that because Dumbledore told you to, or because Voldemort told you to?” Harry snapped back. “I heard what they said-- they think I’m possessed. I can’t stay here--”

“Have some discretion! Be quiet at once. The Headmaster cannot play nursemaid to you. If you require one, go to the hospital wing and wait for your _friends_ to coddle you.” Snape said the word as though friend somehow equaled sidekick, groveling follower, or some such loathsome position. 

Harry whipped out his wand, disguised with his robe sleeves, and pointed it at Snape’s feet. “ _Tarantallegra_ ,” he muttered swiftly, and ducked again as Snape started tap-dancing. Then he fired a “mouth-zipping” spell at the Professor to prevent the counter from being applied immediately, and half-skipped, half ran down the corridor.

The nasty old crow wouldn’t pin him this time, and Harry knew better than anyone what happened when he was targeted by Voldemort. He knew how dangerous it could be, and he would _not_ be party to— --to

He squashed that thought and _ran_ full tilt, lungs starting to burn and stomach quivering with nerves. _Better be quick before they set the owls on me again._ he thought, distracted, and then shuddred as he thought of other steel-colored feathers. The Beast? How would he avoid it?

“Where are you going, Potter?” Tom Riddle’s voice cut through Harry’s plans for escape. “That was a Professor you just hexed before the portrait of a former Headmaster, you know. In case you thought he was someone else.” In spite of Tom’s clear distaste with Harry’s actions, a hint of a smile tugged at his lips.

“I fail to see why you need to run away now, since it seems that you’ve been having visions long before last night. I believe you are under the full protection of Dumbledore, who happens to be graced with the title of ‘the only one the Dark Lord fears.’ Why leave such a coveted position of influence?”

“Because I always solve mysteries at Hogwarts. Mysteries Voldemort might not know. If I’m not here, he can’t learn anything new. And the white rabbit made a promise, but I don’t know to whom... I can’t just stay with the rabbit.”

Tom considered this for a moment. “Snape is the White Rabbit?” He rolled his eyes, and said, “ _My notion was that you had been (Before [you] had this fit) An obstacle that came between, him, and ourselves, and it._ Which means: you are not something he can use so easily, Harry Potter. You are, as I said, an obstacle, and loss of you from these walls would prove more detrimental than any ‘insight’ you might have on the so-called mysteries.” He snorted. “Voldemort has spies aside from you.”

Harry looked over his shoulder, half-expecting to see an infuriated Snape giving chase. “How do you think Voldemort would--”

“He has a body all his own.” Tom interrupted. “Not as comely as it once was, to be sure.” His lip twitched, and he cocked his head as though to display his classically beautiful features. “But his body is powerful and raw with dark magic. His soul is tethered, Harry Potter, and anything but a baby’s body would cast that withered shard out. He would be a fool to try and _really_ possess you.”

“So what will he do?” Harry demanded, and surprised Tom by giving a short run and jump to the window-- where his hands caught imperceptible handholds and he could haul himself up onto the broad windowsill. He perched there and edged farther into the recess of the structure. Hiding from Snape’s hunting eyes.

Tom stared up at him. “He will seek to lure you into a trap. Avoid it.” He advised.

Harry ran his hands through his hair, considering. It was true. He had been seeing curious visions, and feeling pain in his scar since before last night's vision. But he still felt the impulse to leave, to run.

“He made me want to bite Dumbledore.” Harry muttered.

Tom's charming smile reached Harry in the windowsill. “But you didn't.”

Harry glared down at him.

“Sometimes I want to bite Dumbledore too.” Tom added conspiratorially. “How about we hide away in the Chamber of Secrets instead? You can always run away later.”

“You just think if you distract me I'll forget about it...”

“On the contrary. I think you have a very one-track-mind when you are... distressed. But I'm certain you'll see sense when all the wise and powerful wizards around you suggest the same course of action.”

Harry considered this. Then he thought of how hungry he could get over the summers with only nightly forages into the kitchens, and of how cold it was with only a ratty blanket in the cupboard, hidden away. Running from the castle would be hard work, and what was more, he didn't have a clue how to find Voldemort _and_ defeat him.

“The Chamber of Secrets.” Harry repeated dully. He seemed to remember lying about a certain Basilisk escaping, come to think of it...

“It'll be quite cozy with a few charmed fires and warming spells, I'm sure.” Tom coaxed.

“No. I don't want to take you there...”

“Are you afraid I'll unleash the Basilisk? Or afraid that the return of Slytherin's Heir would somehow be counterproductive to my not being on The Dark Lord's side?”

Harry fixed Tom with a look. “Are you joking?” 

“Excellent evasion of the question. Now let's go.”

Considering the alternative (a rather angry Snape-Crow swooping down on them and dragging him by the ear to Madam Pomfrey), Harry decided to take Tom up on the offer. He supposed a few weeks in the Chamber would be secluded enough to rob Voldemort of any useful information.  
.  
.  
.  
Moaning Myrtle's bathroom turned out to be unoccupied when they arrived. Harry watched Tom approach the sink. “You first?” Harry asked.

Tom eyed Harry appraisingly. “Do you really know how to open the door, or did you happen along with your famous luck while it was open?”

“Nice evasion of the question.” Harry repeated Tom's words.

“No,” Tom shook his head, “That was tactfully ignoring your hysteria.”

“It just so happens that I know how to open it. I figured it out because of Myrtle. It wasn't that hard, if you know she died there while the chamber was open. There's this snake on the faucet...” Harry pointed the etching out.

“Will you do the honors, or shall I?” Tom’s eyes shone with anticipation, his whole body teeming with excitement. He stood there, before the Chamber, as though collecting his thoughts. 

Harry whispered the command, “Open.” 

Tom took a step forward and ran a finger against the pipe, wrinkling his nose at the grime he found there. “I suppose, being a Gryffindor, you just jumped into the pipe without thinking of where it lands? Seeing that you are alive, you either applied a cushioning charm, or there is the same sort of mechanism rumored to be in Gringotts.”

“Rumored to be in Gringotts? You mean like their carts?”

Tom's eyes narrowed, and he raised his chin just noticeably. “I imagine there is some sort of charm to stop them from lurching, or a charm to slow them down before they stop.”

“Actually, those carts are murder. They may have breaks, but I didn't notice any slowing down.” Harry suppressed the urge to tease Tom about imagining comfortable devices for the Wizarding bank. But Tom was probably like Ron in that respect--sensitive about being poor. He resisted. Or thought he did. “Does Voldemort not have a vault, then? I mean, I suppose he gets money from razing villages or shops or something... or maybe not if they all keep their gold in the bank... But what am I saying... I need to shut up right about now. Yeah.” Harry flexed his fingers. He hadn't really meant to say any of that. “So. The best we can do is work together.” Harry said vaguely, as though trying for an impersonation of Dumbledore. “So, on three, let’s go. One, two, three!” Harry jumped into the pipe, feet first, his wand out and ready to cast the cushioning charm. 

A moment later, Tom followed him, though his decent seemed more like a practice landing, or the reversal of a hovering charm rather than the careening free fall Harry favored.

Harry lurched to the side to avoid Tom's admittedly-more-controlled landing. He glanced around at the rubble of whatever-it-was that had collapsed around Ron and Doge the first time. 

“There isn't really anyplace we could hide away.” Harry said amiably, glancing at one of the columns. If he tilted his head just right, it looked like the legs of a chair...like the whole of Hogwarts sat perched on a lopsided and wet chair. “So we should make a tree-house. Or a rock-house, maybe. A mausoleum? No, those are for dead people...”

Tom smiled cryptically. “Hide? From _Voldemort_ in the Chamber of Secrets? No, Harry. I just wanted to look around... and you look like you could use some time alone.”

“Right, like I'd let you.” Harry snorted.

The two of them jostled a bit to be first in the narrow passage that Harry didn't remember, and Tom was looking at everything. Harry doubted that he'd miss the great big snake bones long enough for Harry to disguise them, move them, or...something...

Then there was the statue, looming over them and still dripping with dank. The whole chamber was a dark haven for things that lurked under the water. (Harry wondered if there was a Kelpie or two, but so far, nothing called out.)

Tom saw, and his breath left him in a hiss of disappointment.

He stared into the filthy water, eyeing the carcass of the Basilisk. He approached the thing with a measure of solemnity suitable to the grieving memorial a funeral-goer might display. Tom reached for the bones, but stopped just before his fingers brushed their surface. “You're a better liar than anyone gives you credit for, Harry Potter.”

“I had to know if you were him. To see if you knew the difference between stories and reality.” He shrugged, feeling almost inappropriately cheerful. “My version of apples and potions, I think.”

Tom was quiet for a while, pacing alongside the remains of the Basilisk.

Harry doubted that he _really_ mourned the monster.-- even this young Dark Lord didn't seem capable of such a soft emotion for such a violent beast, but he did seem disappointed. “The Basilisk isn't the weapon the Dark Lord is after... do you know what the weapon is? Is it you? Or me?” Harry swallowed, his throat feeling constricted, his skin feeling abrasive and raw.

“The Dark Lord.... he wants to gather his supporters once more. He also wants an eye in Hogwarts... he would like nothing better than for you to leave here, Harry. The only place you are only more protected than here is in your muggle home.” Tom spoke carefully, measuring out the words.

Harry hummed quietly at that. “And you don't think I could kill him before he kills me.” He raised both eyebrows, waiting expectantly for an answer.

Tom only gave him a look.

“What do you reckon you’re going to do then?” Harry asked lazily, looking around briefly for the great big serpent head. He found it and went over to have a closer look.

“Stay away from the venom, Harry.” Tom warned. “And I'm not going to do anything...except go to class for now.”

Harry crouched down, quietly awed at the creature that could have swallowed him whole. “Fawkes actually put its eyes out first.” He admitted. “And I stabbed it with the Gryffindor Sword, right through here...it was over pretty fast. I know about the poison. Fawkes cured me the last time.” He looked around briefly, quietly looking for repetitions of _three_ in the architecture. Three columns there, three fingers curled under on Slytherin's statue-hand....three steps to where he found Ginny, pale and nearly lifeless.

Tom came closer. “Anything else you forgot to mention?”

“The Basilisk lost a fang in my arm... and I used it to stab your diary. The ghost memory screamed and died. Went away. Ginny woke up after that... she was right over there...” Harry gestured, springing to his feet and walking over to the spot.

Tom followed close behind. “Yes, your ‘princess’...” Tom's eyes cast about.

Harry took the three steps, and stooped down. He peered at the flags for a moment, and examined something in great detail. Harry dragged a finger across the stone, and came around to where Tom sat. “Can you spin this hair into gold, Tom-Tit-Tot?”

“Ah. So that's why the youngest Weasley knows about me.” He reached to touch the coppery hair, but Harry held it just out of reach. “She had a connection to...the diary. The diary that held a part of him.” Understanding colored his voice richly.

“‘The mere memory.’” Harry quoted. “You don't look so different.”

Tom wasn't listening, though, but standing up and retracing his steps. He was headed back toward the entrance. “I need to ask Miss Weasley a few questions. Oh, and Harry? You oughtn't stay here alone, don't you think? It might not hold its secrets as well as it used to with the guardian Basilisk gone.”

Harry hauled himself onto his feet. Maybe Tom had a point. If he stayed in the chamber with nothing to occupy his mind, it might make him _more_ susceptible to possession. Or maybe snakes or whatever would sneak in to do Voldemort’s bidding. 

Harry followed, saying. “I don't think there are any more secrets... if there were any that the first Tom Riddle couldn't take out with him in the 1940s, he probably had Ginny get them for him the last time.”

Tom shrugged. “If you believe that the Hogwarts wards and safety spells extend to the secret chamber below the school…” he gestured grandly, “by all means, do stay.” 

Harry rolled his eyes and asked instead, “So how are we getting back up?” 

Tom smiled devilishly and flicked his wand.

* * *

(Tom)

It was jarring, going from the Chamber of Secrets to a Hogwarts classroom. What few memories Voldemort had bestowed me concerning the Chamber seemed to have taken place at night. Never between classes, but my absence would be remarked upon, and so soon after the Headmaster and my truce. I couldn’t risk skiving off. 

So it was, I wasn't exactly the pinnacle of academic good-behavior at the beginning of Defense class. Thoughts of mucky water running over old stones, other thoughts of green eyes as wild and bright as sunlight on leaves, and more ran through my head. It was only Lockhart's quiet remark that had dragged me inside the classroom.

“Ah! Mr. Riddle. The Superintendent was wondering why our numbers were off...come inside now, won't you?” He grinned that flashy grin of his.

Where I sat would be observed as a statement of allegiance, challenge, character and ambition among the Slytherins. Those that watched, at any rate... I doubted that to a one they would make assumptions, but the clever ones... they would think of these things. However, there weren't many Slytherin fourth years that I was familiar with.

Harper and Max were sequestered near the back of the class, legs stretched out momentarily and bags swung casually over their chairs. I walked past them, because to do otherwise would tell them I couldn’t watch my back. The Carrows were seated toward the front half of the classroom, leaning forward and quills and parchment out. Their foreheads touched briefly as they spoke. 

Luna Lovegood was there as well, apparently ignored by the High Inquisitor and the Defense Professor. I sat next to her-- an action which would be observed by the Gryffindors as siding with them, but scrutinized carefully by the Slytherins. They could either interpret it as a move of subterfuge, a bluff, or before I had done anything to the Ravenclaw, they might even expect me to bully her all under the eye of the Professors. If I could do that and get away with it, they would be very impressed. But it wasn’t them that I needed to impress.

She looked at me with a faint expression of surprise, but her clear blue eyes wandered away and toward the Professor. She wasn’t worried. 

“Class!” Lockhart said pompously. “We will be joined today by Superintendent Umbridge, the High Inquisitor of Hogwarts. Please put your wands away and take out your texts. Yes, the slightly drab one. She'll be here in a few minutes...” he ran a hand over his hair distractedly.

“I thought you were special studies.” Luna said, though it seemed a request for more information rather than the statement she phrased it as.

“It seems I've been demoted. The Headmaster told me to attend regular classes,” I told her.

“Professor Dumbledore might change his mind if you submit quarterly reports.” She said airily. “People like to be included, you know.” Then she tucked her wand away in a brightly colored bag.

“You're not meant to be in this class today,” I said carefully, hoping she would tell me why.

“Oh no. I had one of the High Inquisitor's classes this morning. She was inspecting Charms, you see... but I thought I'd like to see how the Slytherins deal with her. To see if she’s inspecting Lockhart, or just here for a social visit. Fromwhat the Slytherins say, she seems to come to his class more often than the others. Do you think she applied for the job?” She turned her large, clear blue eyes from me to look around the class. 

“I wouldn’t know.” I replied.

“Ravenclaws are practically rebellious with Inquisitor lessons; you see... many of them are worried about how the complete lack of practicals will affect their OWLs next year... To be honest, I don't think it is a very good idea to interfere with the curriculum.”

I sneered. “Ravenclaws are prone to thinking they can live alone in their Ivory Tower. I doubt they even notice it's unwise to act rebellious to the Ministry's representative... if she says anything about them or their misbehavior--”

“Oh, I don't think it's as bad as any of that. We don't really misbehave. We just come to class with hand written copies of the textbook before class even begins. You see, if we've already made four copies of the entire book, she can't complain when we read supplementary texts. Charmed to look like Ministry approved titles, of course.”

I smiled and gave a little laugh. The Ravenclaws’ little acts of subterfuge were admirable in their own way, but it seemed unwise to tell another house member about their tactics. In the Defence classroom, no less. Doubtless a new decree would be made, and the Ravenclaws would suffer.

I cast my eyes about to see how my house was taking this information, but all appeared to be uninterested. Which didn't mean much, of course.

The door opened. “Good afternoon, class.” Umbridge called in a sickly-sweet 'cheery' voice.

“Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.” they chorused back at her, straightening their chairs and looking attentive.

“Superintendent!” Lockhart beamed. “So glad you could join us. Class, as you recall, we're reviewing chapter two; who can tell me the classifications?” 

“Yes, Miss Carrows?” Umbridge purred.

The usually-sullen girl turned her expression to a sweet one, and answered as primly and as possible, parroting the politically contrived nonsense in chapter two. She concluded with a demure, “Ma'am.”

Umbridge nodded so that the girl could sit. “So we'll be proceeding to chapter three, shall we?”

Lockhart nodded importantly, striding off to the end of the classroom to lean against Harper's desk.

“Did you have a question, Mr. Max?” Umbridge asked suddenly, which made Lockhart look up so quickly that his hair flopped in his face.

“Professor Umbridge, I'd like to thank you so much for taking the time out of your busy day to drop by the school.” Max said. Thick as ever, that one. No sense of subtlety.

“It is my duty to see that this school's standards are brought up. Now class, there will be no need for talking... Quills out, wands away. Begin copying the text. Four times should do it,” she gave three small claps in succession.

My lip curled. What a waste of time. However, I opened the textbook, and got out my quill. I tapped the parchment, and then the text-- wordlessly casting a glamour so that it looked like whatever I wrote was merely a copy of the page I had turned to.

In reality, I could write whatever I wished-- notes about my classmates’ seeming compliance, Luna's comments, or even what I had learned about Harry Potter. But I doubted I would write any of these things. Instead, I would hold the quill, and think.

The class passed in a haze of recollections and half memories of previous years in Hogwarts. My mind darted from subject to subject, seizing on an idea before abandoning it for another. At the end of class, several Slytherins gathered around the Ministry woman. I listened carefully, pretending to sort through my quill and parchments so as to listen.

“High Inquisitor,” Harper was saying, “Will you be having tea with the Minister again today? He must have missed your keen suggestions while you were away.” If Harry were here, he would surely remark on the rhyme. 

“Oh, but Professor Umbridge,” one of the Carrows simpered. “Won't you have tea with us instead, and bring back some of the House Elves' fine biscuits for the Minister?” 

Her twin picked up where she left off. “There's that small matter Miss. Parkinson wanted us to ask you about. You know, the crest?”

I looked up just in time to see her gesture vaguely at the Hogwarts crest.

“Yes, we really do think the uniforms could stand to be updated... we looked so drab compared to the Tri-Wizard schools last year. And I agree with Miss. Parkinson; family crests under the Hogwarts seal would be marvelous, don't you think?”

“I know you told us about your Selwyn heritage, so I'm sure you understand why some of us would like to display the family crests.” Her twin finished.

Umbridge smiled indulgently at them, but shook her head firmly. “I'm afraid not, ladies. But I will consider the matter.”

Out of Umbridge's line of sight, I saw Rachel Rowle smile icily at the two girls. She probably doubted the uniform would ever change.

“There's also the issue of the library...” I looked up at that. “Some subjects are over emphasized, and some are completely ignored all together...”

This is when Lockhart started wandering back toward the woman. His expression was slightly off-- annoyed, perhaps that his adoring students weren't looking athim with nearly the same respect. “Now class, we should let the High Inquisitor do her job. Can't be a bother, now can we?”

But Harper was talking over him, and Umbridge made no move to show he'd spoken at all.

“Yes, yes, that is all coming into review.” Umbridge drew out her wand and primly called a clipboard to hand, where she made a short note. “I can always count on Slytherin House to take their school responsibilities seriously, can't I?” she laughed a little.

The Carrows twins nodded politely and stepped back, leaving room for Max and Harper to maneuver, and offering the others an opportunity to get close. They said not a word to the others, only gave Umbridge 'sad' looks and slowly packed their books away. I suspected the press of the crowd bothered the two girls.

“Thank you so much for everything you've done, Professor Umbridge.” Max said smarmily.

I looked away, thoroughly amused and their obvious antics. They were playing to her pride, but also furthering their own agendas. It wasn't a bad move; by asking her favors, they also were saying she had some amount of power over them. In her eyes, they were supplicants. Of course to the Slytherins, they were only using whatever tool presented itself.

Only Rachel Rowle hung back, watching with hooded eyes, and a few others who'd decided trampling over Max, Harper, and the Carrows' agenda was not worth any favor they might curry with Umbridge in a few sentences. They'd be smarter, those quiet few, to present their requests to one of those four in private, and have the 'better' students make their requests for them.

I stood up, and glanced over at Luna. She offered a small smile. I turned away from Umbridge then, and made my way for the corridors.

Luna followed at a slower pace, thankfully observant enough not to walk side-by-side with me; her presence would do nothing to help my standing in the house. Safely away from prying eyes, she said, “Oh, but wasn't that interesting? I suppose we could read their requests in a number of different ways, don't you think? They seem to find these High Inquisitor meetings quite nice, don't they? Well, I don't think I'll come to anymore of these Defense classes, even with the Slytherins.”

“Yes.” I agreed. “The family emblems would clearly mark a Pureblood as superior in every corner of the school. And this so-called library question is to get darker books more readily available, or to get a partisan party more representative than it already is.” 

“Or they could be offering a tasty treat for a the Swartoad—they do like to eat intricate things, so they’d bite off the emblem first before going for their hair. The Slytherins asked for private tutors and more Hogsmede meetings in Charms, did you know?”

“All the better to get spies into Hogwarts…” I was intrigued. Letting any adult who wasn't a Toady of Dumbledore's would be a significant change. “Anything else?”

Luna considered the question thoughtfully. “Did you know there's a club meeting tomorrow evening? You ought to come... I'm sure Professor Lockhart will make it worthwhile.” 

“Is there. I didn't think Umbridge would approve any clubs, even if she is rather ambivalent towards Lockhart.” I shrugged. “But it bears looking into, I suppose... are many people going?” 

“The last time there was a Defense teacher holding a Dueling Club, almost the entire second year body turned up. I was just a first year, so there weren't many of my year mates... but yes, I think a lot of students will be there.”

I thought a moment. “Yes, the Chamber opening had many students terrified, didn't it?”

She only nodded vaguely, and her bright eyes traced a pattern along the wall. “I imagine Harry will be there. And Ginny, too.”

I nodded and pretended to catch sight of someone ahead of us. Without another word, I walked down the corridor leading to the dungeons. As I walked, I saw a figure receding into the darkness—followed swiftly by a familiar dark figure, sharp and all contours, chasing after. 

“Desist immediately!” Professor Snape said in that way of his. The words carried sharp venom.

Harry, who must have been the first figure, called back, “No!” 

I rolled my eyes. He seemed to be under the impression that because Umbridge was monitoring his detentions that Snape would hesitate to assign one. I was under no such misconception. 

“Fifty points from Gryffindor! Come to your Remedial Potions Lesson _immediately._ ” 

I laughed silently, and decided to catch up on a bit of Horcrux reading. Harry would be occupied for the greater part of the evening, it seemed.

* * *

Snape finally caught up with Harry at the boys’ toilet. Before Harry could dodge inside and attempt to sneak out through another way (he hadn’t actually thought that far, but climbing out of a tiny window was seeming very appealing at this point), Snape grabbed him by the shoulder, and then pinched his ear firmly, dragging him back.

Harry scowled at Snape. 

“We shall have these lessons twice a week until I say otherwise. See to it that your ‘schedule’ is clear Monday and Wednesday evenings.” 

Harry’s mind replayed a similar scene of ‘Harry Hunting.’ The defiance he felt at being caught rather than dread—already he was thinking of counter-plans to sneak out of grasp. It recent years, taunting Dudley about magic usually did the trick. Professor Snape though…maybe being completely obstinate would do. He was so busy thinking about these things that he missed whatever it was that Snape was saying.

“—arrogant father!” 

“My father was _not_ arrogant.” Harry said absentmindedly, having not heard the forepart of the sentence. “Let me go!”

“No.” With that, Snape dragged Harry along, one hand on his ear, and one hand on his back, so Harry had no choice but to follow along as quickly as he could. “Get in there.” Snape barked once they arrived.

Harry ducked out of Snape’s grasp, attempted to sneak out, but was pushed rather firmly into the room. “So. Remedial potions.” He frowned.

“Occlumency lessons!” Snape sneered, much put-upon. “The Headmaster requests that I teach you an impossible task, I fear, but one that we must endeavor to fulfill. The Dark Lord has too many liberties with your mind. Your recent vision proves that.”

“What do you mean, liberties? He can see what I see?” Harry asked. “Do you mean he’s reading my mind?”

“Idiot. It is not as simple as that—the mind is not as so many words on a page; you cannot trace it with a finger and follow every nuance at a glance. It is deep-seeded, multi-layered, and ever-changing. The mind makes new connections every day. Some,” here Snape raised an eyebrow, as though loathe to continue, “learn something every moment.” Harry doubted that Snape meant _him._

Frowning, Harry ventured a look into Snape’s eyes. The Potions Master was dangerously irritable; he needed to be brought down a peg or two. “What exactly is Occlumency?” 

“Do you not even listen to the Headmaster? He told me that you were informed of these lessons.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“He didn’t use that word.” Harry protested. “Maybe you’d best start from the beginning.” 

Snape glared at him. Harry supposed he didn’t like advice. “Occlumency is a subtle and obscure art, which protects your mind from attacks. I expect you to remember what we discuss here as you have more cause than most to learn it.” He gestured dramatically and a chair materialized.

Harry nodded slowly, remembering the conversation that he overheard by Umbridge’s Auror guard—the Suspicious Near-Moody, and the Overly-Friendly Tonks. “Does it help against possession?” 

Snape gave him a long, measuring look. “It could.” He settled on, but stopped short of asking why Harry asked. Instead he flew about the Office, touching bottles and charming things shut. Harry recognized Dumbledore’s Pensieve—or were there two? When Snape turned his attention on Harry again, it was with a particular scowl that said, ‘Why must it be _you?_ ’ 

Harry abruptly sat in the chair Snape had procured for him and stuck his chin up. “What is Professor Dumbledore afraid of?”

Snape levelled him with a disdainful glare. “You will learn Occlumency so as to protect your feeble mind from the Dark Lord. As of yet, he still seems unaware of the connection you two share. Pray that it remains so.” 

Harry fidgeted, no less confused than he had been at the start of this conversation. “The mind is a not a book.” He intoned. “I’m to protect my mind. By learning Occlumency. How?” 

Snape’s eyes glittered. He folded his arms and continued to lecture, not once instructing Harry ‘how’ these things might be done. “‘Only those skilled at Occlumency are able to shut down those feelings and memories that contradict the lie, and so can utter falsehoods in his presence without detection. The Dark Lord is at a considerable distance, and the walls and grounds of Hogwarts are guarded by many ancient spells and charms to ensure the bodily and mental safety of those who dwell within them. Time and space _matter_ in magic, Potter. Eye contact is often essential to Legilimency.’” (*3) 

Harry sighed. “So Occlumency can make you a Really Good liar. And possibly protect you from possession. Maybe. How come I can see visions if I’m not looking Voldemort in the eye?”

“Do not say his name!” Snape hissed.

“Well, I’m not!” Harry argued. “He’s not here! He wasn’t in my dormitory. And besides, I saw into the Snake’s mind, not his.” 

“The Dark Lord was possessing the snake, Potter. Therefore you saw where he was. Prepare yourself.”

Harry looked up, startled and angry. How was he meant to prepare?

Snape was pointing his wand at him. “Legilimens!” 

_Harry was hiding in the library after school, waiting for Dudley to go home ahead of him…He was letting Aunt Marge and her bulldog in through the front door…He was riding the Boat across the lake to Hogwarts…He tasted pudding on Christmas…Dobby bowed and scraped before him…_

Harry fell out of the chair, finally coming to his senses when his knees knocked against the floor. His wand was in his hand, and Professor Snape had been thrust bodily against the desk, rattling the inkwell. Harry wondered vaguely if he’d done that. 

“Did you mean to use the Knockback jinx?” Snape demanded.

Harry shook his head. “You didn’t tell me how else!”

“Clear your mind.” Snape stalked forward, put his hands around Harry’s robes and thrust him back into the chair. He spoke quickly. “Do not allow yourself access to your emotions; they will be weapons in the Dark Lord’s hands. Remove your feelings. Think abstractly about them; they do not belong to you. Again. _Legilimens!_ ” 

Harry’s thoughts were already swimming. If his feelings weren’t supposed to be his own, maybe he could-- _Lady Mary was young, and Lady Mary was fair, and she had more suitors than she could count on the fingers of both hands. But the most charming of all of them, was Mr. Fox._ (*4) Harry began reciting one of the old English Fairy Tales, trying to distance himself from his seething Potions Master. He felt Snape in his mind—like a jarring presence. Too soon, the words of the story broke away, and Harry felt and saw memories flash before him. 

_He remembered taking one of Dudley’s picture books, hiding it under the thin mattress in his cupboard…Harry remembered being brought aside in primary school, the teacher asking him to deliver a letter to his Aunt and Uncle about his poor reading…He struggled with the letters and the one-on-one lessons with his teacher…he recalled the awe he felt in Hogwarts library when a bookshelf moved on its own accord…he remembered the screaming book when he took one from the restricted section…_

And Snape was pulling out on his own accord, where Harry had started to focus in on that last memory, curious to see if he could read the page the book was open to in the memory. Like a pensieve, maybe? But the image had gone, and he looked, disappointed, into Snape’s eyes. He was beginning to feel dizzy, and his scar hurt. 

“You. Aren’t. Trying.” Snape said. “Discard your emotions. Cast me out.”

“Those are two very different things, Professor. Am I meant to be concentrating on not feeling, or trying to ‘cast you out.’ I don’t think I can be doing both!” Anger and discomfort churned in his gut. He wanted more than anything to keep his Most Hated Professor out from his mind. But he had no idea how to do that than to read Snape’s mind himself. 

He again remembered that Snape was really a Gigantic Crow, hopping around agitatedly, sure to peck him if he did anything else wrong. The crow—it would go for his eyes, maybe. 

Harry decided the best thing to do was to ignore Snape. He shut his eyes.

“Again. Clear your mind! Cast me out, Potter. _Legilimens!_ ” 

Harry kept his eyes closed, and focused on his hatred for the greasy professor. But perhaps merely seeing Harry was enough, for Snape still brought forth memories unbidden. First, Harry saw Snape, scowling over the contents of Harry’s cauldron, but then the Professor redirected the flow. 

“No.” Harry protested. Lights and color were too much sensation. 

_He remembered Rita Skeeter and her acid-green quill, and there in the Graveyard, Cedric Diggory lying face up, eyes glassy._ Harry’s scar hurt. It was that intense pain, that mind-splitting agony combined with Harry’s screaming, perhaps, that made Snape stop once more. Harry felt his scar like never before—it felt prickly. His head throbbed and he felt fevered. Hot, then cold, every touch a quiet discomfort to shadow the intensity of the scar. Everything else was a lie.

“Clear your mind, Potter. Let go of all emotion!” Snape ordered. His large Crow’s feet (hands, part of Harry insisted) locked around him again, setting him again in the chair. When had he fallen? “Control your anger, your fear. Discipline your mind. We’ll try again. On the count of three. One. Two. Three. _Legilimens._ ”

 _Harry saw Snape tearing down the hallways after him, his cloak billowing._ Snape tried once more to pull away from these memories, but Harry ignored whatever the Professor was looking at. He focused instead on the recent memory of the Chase. He wouldn’t see Uncle Vernon putting the bars on his window. He wouldn’t see the Weasleys pulling them off. He wouldn’t see Hermione and Crookshanks, or Ron and the cursed Scabbers. He would just see the Crow, robes billowing behind him in such a towering rage that even the ghosts got out of his way. 

Harry imagined the cobblestones were books. He imagined it was Sleeping Beauty (*5), and he would cast a spell around his mind, a wall of thorns. He wouldn’t see the Graveyard again. He wouldn’t see Duddley and his gang chasing Harry. It was like he was watching two screens at once. Harry wondered if he truly was not seeing what Snape was seeing, or if he was really going over two sets of memories? 

His concentration broke, and loud chatter filled his memories, going over the images and flooding them. He couldn’t make sense of the words. The cold presence that was Snape withdrew. But even then, Harry tried to remember what he could not remember—his scar hurt. It was on fire.…something about the Graveyard. His scar had hurt then too. 

“Potter. Potter. Listen to me, Potter. You must distance yourself. Clear your mind. You must practice every night before bed; you _must_ practice.” 

Harry wondered if there was any point. “I can’t get rid of my emotions.” Harry gasped. 

“Try harder.”

“I am trying!” Harry protested. “All the spindles in the country were burned, and still, she pricked her finger on her sixteenth birthday and fell into an enchanted sleep with all the rest of the kingdom. The whole castle was surrounded by thorns. If he’s the evil fairy, what are you? The spindle, or the thorns?” 

Snape stared at him. “Get out. We will resume lessons on Wednesday. Practice, Potter. I will know if you have not.” 

Harry left without another word. He would go outside to clear his head. The cool breeze would feel nice on his fevered skin. He would feel less angry, less torn-open, if he could be away from people for a while. Tom had said that Voldemort didn’t need another body—that he couldn’t occupy Harry’s easily. So he’d take a while to think—or try not to think—and then he’d go to his dorm-room. Then he would sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*1) and (*2) 'Alice's Evidence - The Sabian Assembly' with some pronouns changed a bit to suit.
> 
> (*3) Direct Quote, OotP, chapter 24 "Occlumency"
> 
> (*4) Mr. Fox, an English fairy tale similar to Blue Beard. Lady Mary has a suitor called Mr. Fox, who talks of his mansion with all the wondrous things inside, but never allows Lady Mary to come for a visit. One night, she follows him down the moonlit path, and sees several signs saying 'Be bold, be bold, but not too bold, least your heart's blood should run cold.' When she gets to his house, she sees him cut off the hand of another of his feonces, and what do you know, but the hand flies straight to where Lady Mary is hiding. Later, she offers the hand as proof for the story she tells ('in my dream,' lady Mary told the listeners). One of my favorite fairy tales. For my modern fantasy retelling set in Japan, see _Moonlight Road_. :) It's technically band-fiction, but it's so removed from reality that you don't need to know who Hyde, Yuki, Tetsu and Ken are (L'arc~en~Ciel ;)
> 
> (*5) Sleeping beauty. I don't think I need a footnote for this one. XD; Enchanted sleep. Wall of thorns. Woken with a kiss. (Or other things, in other versions. Examples: the spindle tip being removed from her finger, the pain of childbirth wake her etc, etc).


	13. Dueling and Muddledness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hagrid comes back, and Harry focuses his attention on: dragons, duels, and...rope? Lockhart starts a dueling/"Gilderoy Lockhart" club.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter takes place at the end of October.**
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> So sorry for the delay in updates! Good news for me; I got accepted into my program-of-study! :D This means I have been busier than ever…but I have no intention of putting this story on hiatus. I’ll try to be faster about upcoming updates though.
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> As always, your questions, comments, and general smiling faces made me come back to the plot. :) So please feel free to chat with me; I love that part of writing fanfic.

**Chapter 13:** _Dueling and Muddledness_

Harry left Grubby Planks’ lesson on unicorns with his head filled with rumpled thoughts of long-haired Gryffindor Ladies (on red tapestry even) and silver unicorn foals. 

“The heart of the school.” Harry announced as they approached the House Tables. Heads turned toward Harry all over the Great Hall as he walked, and he had to wonder if maybe his pronouncement had garnered rather too much attention. Pansy Parkinson was laughing unpleasantly, her high voice carrying like the shriek of an owl. 

“Morning.” Harry said to the Gryffindors (who seemed to be avoiding his eye.) “Something funny happen?”

“Just sit down, Harry.” Hermione hissed. When Harry didn’t immediately comply, she added, “For goodness sake! Harry! Sit down.” 

Harry sat and looked suspiciously at the Slytherins’ table, trying to catch Tom’s eye. 

Tom pretended not to notice.

“The nerve of that woman! Appearing in an article like that.” Angelina slammed her cup of pumpkin juice on the table. She appeared to be deep in conversation with Fred and George. “Harry hasn’t even said anything about You-Know-Who since…and the paper’s quoting _Umbridge_ about Harry. Last year they had that awful Skeeter woman, and this year they’re publishing anything that puts Harry in poor light.” 

“Yeah! Harry’s not lying.” Ron chipped in, clearly brightening at his Quidditch Captain’s support. “When’s the next practice, by the way?”

“Ron, you can’t possibly be saying you believed his story last year. Whatever happened during the tournament, it made him crazier than Mad Eye Moody.” Angelina replied coolly. To the twins she continued, “Harry’s not right in the head. You shouldn’t go smearing people like that.”

Harry felt his ears burn. He glowered at her and at all the gits sneaking curious glances at him. “What’re you trying to say? You think I don’t know what I saw?” 

Angelina barely spared him a glance. “Don’t worry about it, Harry.” She said firmly. 

Hermione turned pink as she peered around the table to look at Angelina. “It wasn’t right for anyone to publish those things, but Harry’s got a right to tell everyone what he saw!” 

“Rubbish. He’s filling everyone’s head with rubbish.” Angelina said fiercely. Harry thought she might rather concentrate on the face of things rather than the thought of Voldemort returning, and part of him felt sad for her. The greater part of him was furious. 

“I’m right here!” Harry exploded. “If everyone’s so sure I’m mad, why haven’t I been expelled?” He looked round the table. “Dumbledore believes me! ” 

“He's feeling sorry for you.” Seamus said from across the table. “My mam's been saying Dumbledore's past his prime. He's thrown his lot in with you since first year, and now he can't see sense because of it! His support doesn't count for much, does it?”

Harry reeled with embarrassment, anger, and confusion. _Did_ Dumbledore feel sorry for him? Did everyone feel he wasn't able to handle it all? They thought he'd react like a stupid child-- crazy. Lost his sense. The anger burned in his stomach, blurring the lines of propriety that used to make sense.

He had so say something. 

“The Red Ettin stole the King's child, beat them, bound them, and everyday beat them with a bright silver wand.” Harry said, each word vibrant in his head. He put his anger there, showing Angelina and the others how furious they made him with their suggestions. “Like the first brother of three, the Red Ettin’s the one that fears no man, witch or wizard. It's said there's one predestined to be his mortal foe, but that man is yet unborn. And long may it be so.

“With each of his seven heads, the Red Ettin (*1) might eat the child, or turn the brothers each to stone with a silver wand. Seven. And One.” Harry concluded.

Unfortunately, none of the other Gryffindors seemed to understand the significance of this particular fairy tale, so Harry shut his mouth tightly and stared mutinously at them all.

Fred and George exchanged glances. “Nice one, Harry.” one of them said with a grin that wobbled a bit; arguing with Angelina hadn’t been easy.

The other twin's eyes twitched as he added, “Yeah. Dragons and monsters need defeating...”

“Wait, an Ettin is a dragon?” Lee Jordan asked, looking at Fred curiously. “I thought he was talking about some Muggle story.”

Angelina was looking at him with a mixture of sadness and irritation. She pitied him, did she?

Harry got to his feet and spun about. _I don't need to sit here and listen to that._

“Harry! Oh for goodness sake, Harry, _listen_ ,” Hermione was saying, but Harry ignored her. “Harry, what _was_ that? What were you—” He kept walking through and past the door to the Great Hall, trying to push his quickly fluctuating feelings down. 

“It was a dream. And a fairy tale. Something I read about, and then dreamed about after Snape’s lessons. Hermione, Ron,” Harry tried to swallow his temper. he looked directly into their eyes, and raised his chin a little bit. “Thanks for sticking by me and everything, but I don’t want to—I just want to be alone.”

“That’s some dream, Harry. Blimey, what’s going on in your head?” Ron looked concerned, and more than a little worried. “I dunno if being alone is—”

“I dunno. Things are just... different.” Harry shrugged, already turning away from his friends.

“I bet it was Snape—bet anything he gave you that dream. _Nobody_ would be right after him poking around in their head,” Ron frowned, clearly trying to fall into the old pattern of suspecting Snape. 

“Yeah. Snape. Right.” Harry muttered. “Death Eater. Dumbledore trusts him. I dunno,” Harry thought longingly of his bed in the tower, of a little time and space away from the other students. “I’ll just be going...”

But Hermione’s hand shot out, grabbing him gently by the shoulder. “I don’t think you’ll want to go off on your own Harry. Look,” Harry’s eyes left Hermione’s face, and followed her gaze out the window. “Look who’s back.”

Harry squinted, and then he saw it, a thin trail of smoke wisping out of the chimney near the Forbidden Forest. He changed his direction, and started to head straight for the grounds, his feet practically flying. Ron and Hermione were quick on his tail, all of them half jogging through the corridors, and then down the grassy slope.

“Hagrid!” Harry called as soon as he was near enough. He pulled up fast though as soon as he saw a glimmer of _pink_ through an open window. He glanced quickly at Hermione and Ron, made a wild gesture, and said, “The woman in pink.”

Hermione looked exasperated even as realization struck her.

Ron blinked. “You talking about Umbridge? What're you trying to--”

The door to the cabin opened just as they all piled onto the path, deliberating what to do. They were still far enough back, however, that the High Inquisitor or Superintendent (whichever, Harry thought bleakly) didn't seem to see them.

“You understand then?” Umbridge was saying in a particularly slow, loud voice, as though Hagrid was partially deaf and dumb. “I,” she gestured at herself, “will be observing you,” she jabbed her finger at his chest, “during lessons. I will be marking your progress.” She repeated the babyish gestures.

Hagrid frowned at the woman, as though he couldn't quite make sense of why she was talking to him like that. “Of course,” Hagrid said, coming out the door the see his visitor out.

Harry sucked in a breath. Even from the distance, it was clear that Hagrid was not in the best shape. He had one swollen black eye, and his hair and clothes looked like something a vagabond might wear, rather than a Hogwarts professor. Hagrid must have been traveling rough, Harry thought, but those injuries... had something attacked him in the Forbidden Forest?

“He's traveled a long way... but those injuries... you reckon those are new? Sorta new, anyway, at least the one on his face...”

Ron stared at Umbridge with disbelief, and then squinted at Hagrid. “This isn't good. You reckon she'll get him in trouble?”

”How did she even know he was here? He must have just gotten back-- he wasn't even at breakfast!” Hermione said indignantly. 

Harry was about to plow forward and demand to know what happened (or maybe tell Umbridge off, he was so angry), but Hermione managed to snake her arm around his.

They all watched in silence as Umbridge bid Hagrid a stiff and careless farewell. She pompously waddled back up the path, and Harry dragged his friends to just the right spot to evade detection. He couldn't remember if “not eating lunch” was against the rules or not now.

Hagrid had closed his door and returned inside by then, and Harry wasted no time knocking and calling, “Hagrid!” again.

“Wha' is it?” Hagrid grumbled, none too pleased. He probably thought they were the pink frog.

“It's us!” Harry replied loudly. The door swished open, revealing a familiar boarhound...and a very banged up half-giant.

Ron and Harry surveyed the damage with mounting horror, and Hermione made a quiet huffy noise.

“Hagrid.” Harry said again. “Your steak is dripping gooey green stuff.”

“It can't be hygienic.” Hermione agreed.

“And it smells awful.” Ron added.

Hagrid burst into laughter that rumbled pleasantly through Harry's chest, and he stepped back enough to let them in. “Should have known!” he grinned. “Barely got me feet back in tha'castle, and you lot are here, banging me door in.”

Harry beamed, his bad mood melting away with the simple sight of Hagrid. 

“Hagrid, don't you think you should go to the Hospital Wing? I'm sure Madam Pomfrey could clear that up for you. But, oh, Hagrid! So much has happened with the newspapers and everything, and the Superintendent, oh, but wait, she's been made High Inquisitor, and there was an attack just last week-- and Harry—” Hermione took a deep, shaky breath and cut off her stream of words. She looked quite emotional.

“I'm so glad you're back,” she whispered, her face working, as though trying to hold back tears. “Where were you? I mean, you missed weeks of school! It's nearly Halloween!”

Hagrid sat back on his chair and looked thoughtful. “Yeah, nearly Halloween...you been keeping out of trouble?”

“That wasn't an answer.” Harry told him.

“You have been in trouble then. That super-in-what's-it not takin' a shine to you then?” Hagrid frowned mightily, and his face looked even more horrible as green stuff pooled in his beard.

“It was just detention.” Harry insisted. “Once. Maybe twice.” he decidedly did _not_ look at his hand. “Where were you?”

Hagrid shook his head slowly. “Can't say, now can I? Dumbledore's business.”

Ron and Harry both began to protest so loudly that Fang roused himself to howling a bit.

“All right, all right!” Hagrid hissed. “Keep your heads on, er that pink toad will be back in me house!”

Harry settled back, feeling exceptionally pleased. Ordinarily, Hagrid was not nearly so keen on sharing interesting information.

“You could have told us you weren't dead. Thought a dragon had taken you off.” Harry said lightly. 

“Dragons?” Hagrid shook his head. “No, no. We were in the mountains, we were-- me and Madam Maxime...where'd you hear anything about _dragons?_ ”

“Oh, you know. Dragons. Harry keeps talking about them today. So you're saying you've been in the mountains... with Madam Maxime since the end of last term?” Ron's tone was incredulous. “Why?”

 

“Have you now, Harry?” Hagrid smiled at him affectionatly. “I shouldn't rightly say, being Order Business and all, but I was in the mountains for the Giants. Dumbledore wanted me to talk to the Giants before You-Know-Who did. But what am I saying. You lot best head back for the castle. Come around for tea tomorrow. I reckon that Umbridge woman is watching now, and you best not stay long...”

They immediately began to protest.

“What day is it now?” Hagrid demanded. Upon hearing the answer he said, “And I'm likely having classes with th’fourth years tomorrow, now ain’t I? You lot get lost; I want it to be a good one!”

So it was that they found themselves ousted from Hagrid's hut, and back on the path.

Harry walked a little slower than the other two, casting glances back towards Hagrid's hut, and the Forbidden Forest. "You don't suppose Hagrid ran into trouble with the Beast? I saw it go into the forest..."

But Ron and Hermione were absorbed in an argument, and didn't seem to hear Harry's quiet musing.

Harry let his mind wander on to other possibilities, tuning out the sounds of Ron and Hermione's chatter (though they might have been talking to him, come to think of it), and examining the details. He had all of today and most of tomorrow to wait-- and he could always ask Tom later.

 _That's it._ he resolved. _I'll ask him at the Dueling Club later..._

* * *

Sometime later, Harry, Ron and Hermione joined the throngs of students in the Great Hall. Dinner had already finished, and everyone was milling about excitedly.

Gilderoy Lockhart beamed at his students, looking for all the world like a gilded bird. He preened, situated his feathers (er, his hair, that is), and stuck out his chest. “Students! I’m very pleased to welcome you to the Gilderoy Lockhart fanclub.” He chortled. “Now, I’m sure you all know that Dueling Clubs have been prohibited by the High Inquisitor, but our little fanclub is all about, well, me. Yes. Magical me!” he gave a little laugh that made Harry’s nose tickle.

To Harry’s right, Ginny Weasley was looking rather unimpressed. She pulled Neville’s arm and said, “But the people who showed up are likely looking for dueling tricks, aren’t they? Who is _honestly_ here for him?”

Lockhart continued, heedless. “Let’s all be ready for a spot of dueling, just in case! All Hallow’s Eve is an inauspicious time, they say—you never know who might challenge you.” He gave a hearty laugh that didn’t suit him.

Tom elbowed his way to stand near Harry with a cryptic smile. “All this posturing... That man really has a talent for self-promotion. But even if the man himself is of little use... we can use this time to see where the student’s skills lie.”

Harry nodded absently, deciding not to comment on Ginny’s (openly distrustful) scowl.

Tom continued with a sardonic lift of the eyebrows. “Ah, the joys of student life. Today, Harry, we have an opportunity to see them struggle through simple defensive spells, and be granted permission to hex them in full view of professors.” He cocked his head suggestively.

The words raced around in Harry’s head, rearranging themselves against other things Tom had said. Tom the Diary and Tom the New Student were looking more and more different. “…I didn’t know you could joke.” Harry said finally.

Tom only looked at Harry briefly before turning his attention back to Lockhart. “What kind of horcrux would I be if I didn’t have a sense of humor? I’d make my eyes flash red for comic effect if I could, but alas... that would attract undue attention, Boy-Who-Lived.”

 

“Can you?” Harry looked intrigued. “Do the thing with your eyes.”

Tom ignored him.

Lockhart took his time at the front of the hall, chatting amicably with students until he tapped the stage with his wand. “I shall ascend the stairs and show you proper dueling form,” he was saying in another of his pompous voices, when there was a loud _crack!_

Harry’s attention snapped to the explosion-- a brilliant purple affair with hot-pink stars-- that colored Lockhart’s face black. One of the stars appeared to sting Lockhart on the forehead. He let out a rather-undignified squeal.

Harry wondered if the stars were one of the Weasley’s products...

“Mmm. Shall we move closer? A better view would be most beneficial,” Tom took Harry by the arm, his hands cool and comfortable.

“Divide into pairs!” Lockhart said loudly, wiping desperately at his face. He shook his golden curls about furiously, hiding a lot of the damage.

“My, my. This is rather like watching a common sparrow set itself on fire, acting the phoenix. Wouldn’t you say?” Tom said.

Someone from the Slytherin corner got Harry’s attention. “Are you trying to be witty, Riddle?” Malfoy’s face was fixed into thoroughly disapproving grimace. “And hanging out with him? You ought to know by now that Potter’s gone barking mad.”

“Riddle is rather going out of his way to show off his verbal repertoire,” Zabini agreed.

“Slytherin Group Mentality.” Harry mused. “I didn’t realize that Tom coming over meant that you’d follow.”

Tom snorted, giving Harry an appraising glance.

Someone firmly gripped Harry’s shoulder. “So. Let’s start with some simple spells-- Knock Back spells, Expeliarmus, just simple ones, don’t you think?” Hermione was saying. She’d raised her voice as she looked at Lockhart hintingly, clearly hoping he’d take her advice.

Lockhart though was too distracted, and simply darted out of the Hall to the nearest bathroom, a cloud of smoke trailing him. He seemed to yell something like, “I’ll just be right back...” or maybe it was “Jubalee for starters.” Harry rather liked the latter.

Harry turned to Hermione, who was watching Riddle warily. “Right? So, Harry, partner me?” She asked.

Riddle’s hand, however, was already tightly around Harry’s, and he held it up like a prize. “Harry’s already got a partner. Why not ask Ron?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I’m sure we’ll be trading off partners, Tom. Hermione. And anyway, I thought I’d be Ron’s partner to start with.” Harry looked for Ron. For reasons unknown to him unwilling to give in too easily to either Tom or Hermione.

“Um. Right? Yeah!” Ron replied enthusiastically. “Great idea. No Snape this time to separate us anyway...”

Harry took a minute to look around, noticing that most students hadn’t started doing much of anything. The students were still jostling about, some of them still laughing at Lockhart’s fiasco. In one corner, a group of Slytherins had made a semi-circle, and with some unspoken signal had pulled apart, marking their progress with short dignified steps. Harry thought they looked like ants marching on a clock, and told Ron as much.

Ron ignored that. “So, let’s back up a bit and uh, begin. You reckon the number of steps is important?” He raised his hands in a flapping manner. “Hey! You lot! Clear away a bit. We’ve got the whole Hall to work with, so...spread out!” Ron hollered.

“You heard him! Spread out, or take a stray hex!” Ginny reiterated, and began to move away with her yearmates.

So they were eventually left staring at each other from an arbitrary distance of ten paces (Ron had got that much from watching the Slytherins, though he denied where the sudden insight came from). Finally Harry said, “Salute, bow. And begin when the clock strikes.”

Ron grinned at him, and the whole moment practically glowed with its normality. They waited.

To the right, Tom and Hermione squared off, similarly motionless. Tom was languid, too sure of himself. Hermione tight with nervousness and distracted by her friends.

 

“Very good!” Lockhart boomed from the door. His hair was still a bit mussed, but most of the black stuff was gone from his face. His sparkling teeth were more prominent than usual, though, more so than his gaze, which was distinctly vacant. _Too busy preening, probably._ Harry thought.

Harry felt Ron begin a spell. He turned away from Tom to look at his friend.

“Make a chiming noise.” Harry told Lockhart. When the professor didn’t respond, he clarified, “Please make a chime so we can start. Sir.”

“Locomotor Wibbly!” Ron was yelling. Harry dodged out of the way so he wouldn’t get hit by the Jelly-Legs jinx.

“Harry, you’re supposed to use defensive spells. And give a go at me,” Ron muttered. Harry could on barely hear him, being ten paces away.

“On three, then?”

They both counted. “Petrificus Totalus,” Harry yelled, while Ron said “Expelliarmus!”

Harry, however, kept hold of his wand. Ron muttered a quick “Protego!” but it wasn’t quite fast enough.

“Right. Go again?” Harry offered, doing the counter jix to both Ron, and the pair of duelers nearest them, who had managed to jinx one another.

Harry checked on Tom and Hermione as he spoke, tipping his wand as he did so. A discreet counter-jinx might just be necessary, he thought.... He doubted that Tom would go easy. “You’re not using the blasting curse, or Reductor curse, are you, Riddle? Because not using lethal or potentially-lethal spells really would be best, considering we’re in school. And your cover and all. You’re supposed to be only fourteen-ish years old you know... Hermione?”

“Nearly fifteen.” Tom interjected smoothly.

Hermione quickly wiped her brow with her sleeve. Whatever Tom had done, it left her sweating, and she squinted. “He just jinxed me...” Hermione protested faintly. “I blocked the most of it, but,” she trailed off. 

Ron half-scowled, half smiled. It made his mouth look all lopsided. “Hermione, you didn’t know the counter?”

Tom snorted. “It’s rather rare to partially block anything. You were hit.”

“Then your jinx is half power!” Hermione shot back.

“Errr... wanna switch partners?” Harry felt vaguely bad for Ron, who now had to be paired with a rather-cross Hermione.

Tom, on the other hand, looked like a hound who had scented blood. His eyes were dilated, and he had an air of excitement about him, although he did not smile. “Of course.” He gave a mocking bow.

They traded partners without saying anything else, and Harry quickly found himself appraising Tom. His stance was unlike any of the other students-- a mix between nonchalance and extreme pride, and once again Harry thought that he looked Harry up and down hungrily.

Harry smiled warily.

“Bow, Harry Potter.” Tom said. “On the count of three.” But he never started the count. Instead, he just looked at Harry for what felt like forever. His dark eyes bore into Harry, staring at him from the (now glaringly short) distance of ten paces. Tom slowly cocked his head and lifted his chin. He watched Harry through slitted eyes, brooding, or perhaps thinking.

“Wandless legilimency, eh, Riddle? I wouldn’t spend so very long inside Potter’s head. Who knows what sort of rubbish he has locked up in there.” Malfoy jeered from behind.

Harry snorted. “Speak for yourself.” Then he thought about it. “Hey! Riddle, you’re _not_ \--”

“What student can perform Legilemency?” Tom protested smoothly.

“You’re thinking about how you should fix the duel. Like you could fix it, you git.” Harry scowled. “So you can say ‘I meant to do that” even if I beat you.”

Tom had a very hard time keeping the smile from his face. “Such confidence. On three, then, Potter. One. Two. Three!”

Harry said, “Expelliarmus!” straight at Tom.

The other boy dodged, winding his way forward and grinning like mad. He seemed to have lost track of his cool, collected persona. He had a charismatic, well-honed feel about him, like he knew the battlefield and was perfectly at home there.

Harry instinctively stepped aside as a muttered jinx shot a beam of golden light his way. He replied with a jinx that should have made Tom’s arm ramrod straight. 

Then Tom’s figure was obscured in a huge blast of light that made his exact whereabouts indistinct. _Lumos Maxima._ could be used offensively? Why hadn’t he thought of that?

Harry cast about quickly, torn between panic and great interest. He hadn’t had this much fun since— “the moon was shining sulkily…” he quoted the Walrus and the Carpenter, (*Carrol) and then “Nox! Finite Incantatem)--” Harry wondered which would work. 

Tom interrupted with a hissed, “Incarcerous!” Ropes shot out from his wand.

Harry froze for an instant. _Strong hands around his wrists. Cedric dead beside him. He was dragged, dragged to a towering headstone, and ropes shot out--_

Then he ducked. He couldn’t be caught the same way twice—he couldn’t. “ _Confringo!_ “ the blasting curse scorged across the tiles, setting something aflame for an instant in a brilliant burst of red and orange.

Tom had the sense to get out of the way. When Harry saw him again, ( still stuck thinking, _he’s not him. He’snot, he’snothim, he’s_ not.), Tom was pale and shaken.

Which is it? His mind was on fire. He couldn’t decide if Tom remembered something about ropes too, or if he was just upset that Harry had cast _fire_ at him. ( _Snakes are water creatures,_ he realized. _Wonder if Tom doesn’t like fire?_ ) 

But before Harry could explain, before he could put words to his flash of unwanted-memory, the door had opened. A figure stalked in, robes swishing dramatically. It was almost enough to bring Harry back to himself.

 

”Harry Potter.” That voice, though it wasn’t yelling, had a way of being heard even through the fuzzy haze of Harry’s memories. Even through the cold flashes, the shakes and the forbidden memory that threatened to pop up, Harry heard Snape’s voice. “Lockhart. Harry Potter may be hiding among these students… he must serve remedial potions with me—he cannot be allowed to gallivant here this night. Now. Where is he.”

Harry, still pale and deeply shaken, did not want to continue the occlumency lessons with Snape. Anything was better than having the greasy professor mentally attack him—Harry was sure his head might actually break with more of _that._

Should he hide under the stage? But no, when it was Vanished, what would happen to him? Would he be Vanished as well? Better to get lost among the crowd, Harry thought. Not caring that Riddle was watching, that many sets of eyes were betraying his location to the Potions Master, Harry thrust himself into the herd of students.

But the students pushed back. Arms pushed him into the center of the hall, and Harry saw, to his great dismay, that he must have walked straight into the Slytherin side of the practice session. Their grins were wide and amused, clearly pleased to hand Harry over to their Head-of-House.

“He’s here sir.” Malfoy said. Of course it was Malfoy. It was always Malfoy. “Remedial Potions, eh Potter?” He shoved Harry a bit harder than necessary.

“Thank you, Draco. Mr. Potter! Ten points for deliberately avoiding our lessons,” Snape’s voice dripped with malice. “Lockhart. This isn’t a…dueling club, is it? I don’t believe Umbridge will be pleased. And to think, I thought you two were getting along famously. Why, oh why are you gathering the students to duel?” Snape’s black eyes were on the Defense professor, boring into him.

Harry privately wondered if Snape were trying to invade Lockhart’s mind, and quietly shivered at the thought. There was something about the professor that Harry didn’t want to confront, didn’t want to remember. But Lockhart was only laughing Snape off, flashing his white teeth and waving a hand for Harry to go.

Harry looked mutinously back at Snape, and his trouble with Tom was momentarily forgotten. “Why _today?_ “ he demanded.

“We discussed the schedule previously.” Snape muttered out of the corner of his mouth. He did not look pleased.  
Harry looked at Hermione and Ron before he was pulled out of the Hall altogether. They looked just as unhappy as he felt. 

“Rotten luck, Harry.” Someone called. It might have been one of the Weasley twins, but then again, maybe it was a fairy… 

The trip to Snape’s dungeon-level office was a short one, and with no words to distract him. Harry stared gloomily at the office door, and when it opened stepped through only upon threat of _more_ of Snape—”Detention if you hesitate one second longer!” 

Snape walked round the heavy desk, his eyes straight on Harry’s. His lips were twisted in a most unsatisfied sort of way. 

Harry rather felt this ‘lesson’ would be no more successful than the last. “I don't think these lessons are working very well. Sir. All this is doing is giving me a scar-ache. Headache. Sir.”

“Nevertheless, we will persevere. Your absence has been noted to the Headmaster, and he expressed his disappointment at your...lack of interest in the subject.” Snape sneered. It jibed. “Again, we shall test the limits and strengths of your existing mental defenses. _Close your mind._ ” Snape instructed.

The door to Snape's office shut with a resounding thump.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbc…
> 
> A/N'So Harry and Tom have interesting reactions to ropes. Moreover, Snape is not happy, and is being dense about Occlumency (what else is new?) Next up on the agenda: the Giant’s Daughter. 
> 
> Thoughts?
> 
> Fairy Tale notes:  
> ( **listen** : https://ia600402.us.archive.org/30/items/english_fairy_tales_joy_librivox/english_fairy_tales_23.mp3)  
> (*1) **The actual** (literary) **prophecy from the story:** 'The Red Ettin of Ireland Once lived in Ballygan, And stole King Malcolm's daughter, The king of fair Scotland. He beats her, he binds her, He lays her on a band; And every day he strikes her With a bright silver **wand.** Like Julian the Roman, He's one that fears no man. 'It's said there's one predestinate To be his mortal foe; But that man is yet unborn, And long may it be so.'
> 
> There are two brothers of age, who must leave their mother's home to seek their fortune. The mother gives the eldest a tin can to fetch water, which will determine the size of the journey cake she can give him. She asks him to split the cake with her and take her blessing, or to keep it all, and go with her malice. There was a hole in the tin, and so much of the water had dripped out, so it was a very small cake. He took his mother's malice and went off. He came across an old women who mentioned above prophecy, and he goes to the dark tower. He's turned to stone by the Ettin, (being unable to answer the riddles) and unable to save the King's daughter. The second son mends the can, splits the cake with the woman and thus gets a **magic wand** and the answers to the riddles. He hears a different prophecy, foretelling ''But now I fear his end is near, And destiny at hand; And you're to be, I plainly see, The heir of all his land.' He kills the monsters guarding the tower and terrorizing the land, knows the answers to the riddles, and saves the king's daughter, and turns his brother back from stone.
> 
>  **Differences in the story Harry tells:** Incidentally, the Red Ettin technically has three heads traditionally. Also, note that technically there were two brothers, **not three.** ;)


	14. One for sorrow: mass breakout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Hagrid tells Harry, Ron and Hermione about the Giants, they think that all they must worry about is the upcoming Inspection by Umbridge. However, Harry's occlumency isn't going well, and Tom seeks Harry out in private for reasons Harry can't quite understand.

**Chapter 14:** _Mass Breakout_

"I shouldn’t be telling you lot at all, really." Hagrid was saying as he poured the tea into mismatched cups, "But I reckon you ought to know. Now...wha’dy’ou all know about Giants?"

Hermione looked up, the same gleaming look in her eyes that she got when someone was calling for answers in class.

Meanwhile, Ron looked distinctly uncomfortable. As he’d told Harry last year during the Triwizard Tournament, Giants didn’t have a good reputation at all.

"There used to be Giants everywhere," Hermione began primly, "but they were driven to the mountains where they could be spotted less often. They can be twenty-five feet tall, and they have sided with Dark Wizards in the past."

"True enough." Hagrid nodded and started doling out rock cakes. "But there’s a bit more to it than that..."

"Giants are classified as beings. They have language, community and customs. They are magical, but don’t have magic," Hermione continued, seeming to take Hagrid’s comment as a prompt for more information.

"What do you mean magical?" Ron made a face. "They’re huge, is all! "

"Giants are magical all right. Can tell what’s what, as far as interestin’ creatures go. They aren’t fooled by Muggle repelling charms. You’re right, Hermione, they are mostly in the mountains now. But they’re dying out.” Hagrid shook his head sadly. “Too many of them in too little space. It’s just not in their natures."

"But Hagrid, you’re half Giant. You live all right with other people. Giants-- they can’t be all bad..." Harry chewed his lip, wondering if it was Hagrid’s first encounter with Giants. "Did they treat you well, Hagrid? Maybe it takes them a while to warm up to people. "

“Could be.” Hagrid allowed.

Ron gave Harry an exasperated look. "Giants don’t have that kind of societies. If a problem is too complicated, they bang it (and the messenger) over the head."

Harry thought about it. "But your mum." He said to Hagrid. "She stayed with your Dad long enough to have you, didn’t she? And your dad, he loved her, right? So they’ve _got_ to have more to their societies than all that."

Hagrid shrugged, and his face being a mass of bruises, this made him more expressionless than usual. “I dun’remember me mother, but yeh, I suppose so.” He looked into his cup. “The Giants like contests more’n passion, strength more’n love or niceties…but yeh. Me dad must’ve loved a challenge. I’spect ‘is magic would’ve helped too. Giants love magic, so long as it ain’t directed at them.” 

Harry spun his cup around, using his wand to levitate the tea in a spiral of liquid. “Giants _are_ fascinated by magic objects then.”

“Yer tea’ll get cold, Harry.” Hagrid told him.

“There are all kinds of stories in the Muggle world about Giants, you know. Not just ‘Fee-fi-fo-fum’s either—there’s a Giant’s Daughter who marries a prince after completing impossible tasks to help him. And—and King Arthur’s knights and Guinevere…the rocks they were said to sit on were huge. She was said to be the Giant’s Daughter you know, maybe even the same.” He put his tea back in the cup and turned his attention to Hagrid’s battle scars. No talon marks, and no snake bites either. What could have caused it?

“She could have been Half Giant, your Muggle-story miss.” Hagrid replied evenly. “Giants used ta have more mixed kids, they did. Explains the various heights, don’t it? And the impossible tasks—pure Giants won’t spare as much time for that. Would rather take ‘is head and leave the questions in the dust.” 

Harry considered this. “Maybe the newer Giants have inbred too much. There in that colony. Maybe they’re not _all_ like that.” Harry sat a minute, wondering then if it was condescending or not to console Hagrid over the other half of his parentage. Unable to come to a conclusion, Harry sipped his tea. 

“But that aside, it’s how their natures forged ‘em now. Fast on action, slow in words, and none too caught up in the details.” He sighed. “Our peace mission failed, it did.” Then Hagrid went on to tell them about the gifts Dumbledore had pepared for the Giants, and of the evidence that others had settled in different caves. “Death Eaters, more’n likely. Reckon they brought gifts and ambassadors too. Anyhow, Karkus was killed and they had themselves a new Gurg. We had to leave right quick after that.” 

They exchanged grim glances. 

“Up stick and bang them!” Harry chimed in. “Or a magic fife to make people dance? Or an ointment that protects you from fire and physical damage?”

“What’s that, Harry?” Hagrid was politely puzzled.

“Those were things Tom won.” At Ron and Hermione’s startled look, he explained, “in the story. There was this boy called Tom who dressed in skins, and fought three giants in turn, and they each gave him those magic gifts. I just thought the Giants would be happy to get them back. But maybe not. Maybe some other Giants lost those.”

“Right. Yeh.” Hagrid returned to his story. “But Dumbledore made Everlasting Fire, see, I told you that already. And a goblin-made helm, it was, and a roll of dragon skin.” 

“Skins are useful, I expect. Though the helm didn’t do him much good if he was killed soon after.” Harry remarked. 

“Well.” Hagrid said, and they sipped their tea in silence. After a while, with Hermione’s keen eyes on the door, he said, “You lot best be going. It’s nearly dark.”

“Sleep well, Hagrid,” Ron said. “Hope you’re good ‘n rested for Umbridge’s inspection.” Harry and Hermione wished Hagrid luck, and off they went.

* * *

The next day, Harry, Ron, and Hermione set out for Hagrid’s first-lesson back a little earlier than usual. As they neared Hagrid’s hut, which the pen for the unicorns had been set up near, they caught sight of Hagrid. Even from a distance, Hagrid looked much improved; his clothes had been cleaned, and his eye wasn’t as swollen. Hagrid looked rather annoyed, and the reason for his annoyance stood not three feet from him.

“I can teach the lesson for you, you know. Know all about them! See sense, Hagrid, you’ve just got back, are a little…well, let’s just say you’re not a bouquet of roses, Hagrid.” Lockhart winked.

“I’m being inspected today, Lockhart. Wouldn’t be proper.” Hagrid stood by the pen with the unicorn foals, waiting for the last of the class to arrive. He didn’t have long to wait.

Lockhart leaned against the pen, seemingly immune to the golden foals the girls fawned over. Umbridge came up beside him, a simpering smile on her face. Harry half expected the unicorns to leave. 

_And, as in uffish thought he stood. . .it Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came!_ Harry thought. 

“Right. Come on then! You’re in for a real treat. These are really rare, these are. I reckon I’m the only one whose managed to train them. Hogwarts has the largest heard in Britain!” Hagrid effortlessly pushed through the students, looking only somewhat disgruntled by Lockhart’s intrusion. He hefted up what looked like half a cow over his shoulder, and marched on.

“Er…” Lockhat slowly backed away as their objective became clear. “I’ll, uh, just be off then. Just recalled! Lesson planning and all that.”

Umbridge raised her eyebrows. She looked like she’d swallowed something large (Harry hoped it was the Vorpal Blade, and that it might possibly cut her voice out on its way down, but thought this rather unlikely). “Hagrid.” She said in the exact tone Aunt Marge used on her dogs.

“We aren’t going far.” Hagrid smiled reassuringly. “Kelpie are a might more dangerous, and the Thestrals are stabled on Hogwarts grounds, just a bit farther on. But they’re left to their natural habitat in good weather, so it’s the clearing we’re off to.”

"Did you say ‘Thestrals?’" one student sputtered. "But Hagrid, Thestrals are unlucky! They’re cursed-- if you see one, you’ll die!"

Hagrid frowned at that. "Thestrals are highly misunderstood creatures. That ain’t true at all—they’re smart as anything, and can take you anywhere. Fast, they are, and perfectly capable of ferrying jobs or the like. I’ll call them so they know it’s me." Hagrid threw back his head and gave two long calls, sounding rather like a large bird of prey. Then he threw down the carcass with a great _whump_.

The class waited in silence, as though spell-bound. How would the Thestrals come? 

A pair of large, white eyes stared out at them, and slowly approached the cow carcass. It was large and horse-shaped, only scaly, and it had wings. Harry starred, transfixed. This creature looked more dangerous than a kelpie, he thought. Especially the way it took a bite of the cow.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Harid smiled.

After a second glance, the Thestrals seemed graceful creatures, and none of the strange malice of a Kelpie in its eyes. It looked curious, if anything and a bit hungry, he had to admit. Very focused on that food there...

“Ah look, here comes another one.” Hagrid said happily. 

Most of the class was still looking about in confusion, somehow not noticing the two Thestrals that stood before them. Blaise looked as though he might faint. Neville shifted awkwardly, and Harry watched intently.

"What’s eating it?" Draco whimpered. "What’s _there?_ "

Hagrid looked a bit disgruntled. "Thestrals, like I’ve been saying for the last fifteen minutes."

Umbridge feigned surprise. "What?" she asked with wide-eyes. She made a gesture, as though she hadn’t heard properly.

Harry immediately distrusted the question. He scowled.

“Thestrals. You know, big winged horses?” Hagrid flapped his arms somewhat unhelpfully.

“Has to resort to crude gestures….. students can’t….understand what he’s saying….” Umbridge muttered under her breath, scribbling on her clipboard.

Hagrid frowned, but tried to go back to his lesson. "Thestrals will lead you anywhere you want to go if they’re trained," Hagrid continued, "and Hogwarts has the largest herd of them in Britain." He went on about the creatures, but Harry was more than half-listening to what the Slytherins were feeding Umbridge.

"Professor!" Pansy complained. "He brings us in here every chance he can get, never mind it’s the _Forbidden_ Forest."

“We’re not even _in_ the Forest.” Ron shot back. “This is a clearing.”

Professor Umbridge made a nasty little "hem-hem" noise, and began to question the students about Hagrid.

Draco shook his hands out, and Harry thought he looked like a small child unwilling to play with the watercolor paints. "Care for Magical Creatures used to be a good option for students," he continued, and Nott was nodding vigorously.

"Not every class is supposed to be focused on book learning." Hermione called out sternly. "Some classes require a more hands-on approach. Different students have different learning styles, and Hogwarts is accommodating for that!"

No one paid her any mind though, and Harry decided he was going to go investigate the lone creature.

While they’d been talking, the two creatures were joined by half-a-dozen others.

Pansy wrinkled her nose. "Everyone thinks this class is horrible-- they’re just too afraid say anything, right, Draco?”

“Nevile. You can see the Thestrals, can’t you? Who did you see die?” Hagrid asked, ignoring the others.

Neville looked surprised to be addressed, and rather uncomfortable. “My granddad.”

“And how do these creatures make you feel?” Umbridge interjected.

“Errr.” Said Neville. 

“Students are too….intimidated…. to admit that they are …afraid…” Umbridge added. 

“I’m not afraid!” Neville protested. “They’re eerie, all right, but…dead clever.” He repeated. 

Hagrid grinned at him, and went on to explain a bit more about the creatures.

“I think I've seen enough. Carry on.” Umbridge said, and they all tried not to look relieved. “The result of your inspection shall be delivered in ten days time.” She held up ten pudgy fingers. 

Harry took a step forward, keen on touching this strange creature as well. Like Buckbeak, maybe, with a strong neck and soft skin. Or would it be like a Kelpie, who looked on with bright red eyes? Always with a wicked look and _just_ enough room for more?

Harry nervously gave the horse-creature a pat. “You can find your way to anywhere? The best I can manage is a Four-Point spell that tells me which way North is."

The Thestral nuzzled Harry’s hands, and class continued.

* * *

Several weeks passed without much fanfare. Harry avoided Occlumency lessons with Snape when he could, but was largely unsuccessful. One Monday evening, he managed to avoid him altogether—leading to a perfectly good Tuesday being spoiled by the sudden appearance of a large, black Crow on Harry’s way to Hagrid’s. 

“Er.” Harry said.

“Indeed.” Snape snarled, looking straight at Hermione and Ron as he did so. “I trust the two of you can continue your dubious social call without Mister Potter. He has _remedial potions_ to make up.”

Hermione looked both shocked and displeased at this news. “You told us you went!” she exclaimed. 

Harry shifted. “I went to the dungeons. Snape wasn’t in, so I went to the, uh, library instead.” 

“Sadly, you must have _passed by_ unnoticed. I suspect you were trying your best to remain _unseen_?” 

Hermione nudged Harry sharply. “We’ll see you in the common room after. Remember what Professor Dumbledore said—”

“That will be enough, Miss Granger.” Snape interrupted. He latched onto Harry with one claw and steered him bodily into the dungeons without another word. 

When they finally arrived at Snape’s office, everything was set up just as before. Snape must have already deposited his memories in the Pensieve, for he only loomed over Harry for a moment before saying, “Prepare yourself.” He looked positively vicious.

Then before Harry could do so much as breath, Snape had begun.

_Aunt Petunia was holding Dudley’s chubby hand, leading him cautiously through a park. “Stay away from those crows, Dudley-dearie! This early in the season, their tempers are nasty, nasty…”_

_“What can a crow do?” Dudley pouted. He was still too little to sneer properly._

_“Why, I’ve seen them attack! Peck people’s heads, they will—your father barely escaped when he was passing through. You wouldn’t remember; you were just an iddy-biddy-baby.” She looked fearfully at the crows._

_“Dudley!” one of the kids called from the swings. “Come play!”_

_Harry looked at the boy hopefully, wanting to be invited too. But the other boy ignored him completely, instead saying, “Good afternoon Mrs. Dursley.”_

_Dudley laughed sharply as the other boy ran off. He jerked his chin at Harry. “Why don’t you go make friends with the crows? I bet they’d love to play a game of, of fly-and-peck with you!”_

The memories were getting clearer and more detailed, even after weeks of lessons. He couldn’t toss Snape out any more than he could stop remembering the color of summer when someone said ‘July.’ 

“You. Aren’t. _Trying._ ” Snape seethed. 

Harry shifted uncomfortably. He wanted to say, _One for sorrow, Two for joy, Three for a girl, Four for a boy, Five for silver, Six for gold, Seven for a secret, Never to be told,_ (*1) but knew from experience that Snape never reacted well to rhymes. Instead he thought it furiously, closed his eyes and made a show of breathing. 

Then something strange happened. Snape sighed. He sat down heavily at the chair behind his desk instead of pacing, and he said to the polished wood, “If you’re practicing deep-breathing, sit up straighter. Use your diaphragm, and hold your breath for five counts before letting it out slowly.” 

Harry stopped breathing immediately to gape at his professor. 

“Well?” Snape demanded. 

Harry tried, tentatively. 

“Ridiculous.” Snape said, standing up and walking over. “Whatever gave you the impression that squaring your shoulders is required? Remain relaxed.” He gestured at the area just under his ribcage, Harry was delighted to see, and demonstrated. He looked a bit like a children’s teacher for once, like that. “ _This_ muscle should move, not those.” Then he roughly touched Harry’s shoulders, one after the other.

Harry barely even flinched. 

They continued like this for a few minutes before Harry reluctantly thought, _This might not be so bad._ He finally began to relax, the thoughts of the days (so many students, so much noise) eased away, and he leaned back into the straight-backed chair. 

He dozed off while Snape was referring to a book, strangely silent as he looked through _The magic of the mind_. Harry wondered what took Snape so long to consider different methods.

The silence continued until it snapped. He did not know where he was. 

_Elation welled up inside of him, speeding his heart and coursing through him like wildfire. He began to laugh with the joy of it—hard and loud, the sound of it waking the magic in him._

_He walked the paths of twilight, a pale shadow against the wood. And he opened his arms wide to the figures that made their way toward him._

_He laughed, laughed._

_Soon. It would be soon._

The sound of that laughter filled Harry’s ears. He wanted it to stop, it was so loud, so raucous. And then he knew—

“Potter!” Snape was shaking him so hard that he banged his head into the chair. “Desist immediately--” and it registered in him, too. They’d both heard that laugh before, so high and cold. 

Harry lurched forward, squirming out of Snape’s grasp and crashing to the floor. He felt ill, and his scar burned with such an intensity. He wondered who had been laughing, but then, looking at Snape’s face, he somehow knew it had been him. He had been laughing. Harry was dizzy and thought desperately of glass-coffins and thorn brambles set around an impenetrable castle. _I can make a fortress of my mind, make a Hogwarts to keep Voldemort out…._

The Crow was staring at him beadily. It cocked its head, resolving again into Professor Snape. 

“Something’s happened.” He muttered, wishing for the breath that had come so easily before. “Something happened to make him so…so happy.”

Snape stared at him, wordless. “Get a hold of yourself, Potter. This must stop; you must keep the Dark Lord out. You are an utter fool. Do you relish this insight into the Dark Lord’s mind? Do you think it makes you _special?_ ”

“No—” Harry gagged, and fell silent, trying to get a hold of his body.

Harry looked back at the stone floor. He didn’t know what to say, would never know what to say. He closed his eyes, breathed with his shoulders and his diaphragm (whatever that was) both, letting the breath out in a hiss. 

“Clear your mind.” Snape insisted, as though it was the simplest thing in the world. “You must not let him in. It is not for you to…” Snape trailed off. 

 

“I’m not you.” Harry said, anger flashing briefly in the well of panic. “ _Sing a song of black birds, put them in a pie. And when the pie was opened, they began to sing(*2)—seven for a secret, a secret, secret thing._ ” The words of the rhymes blurred, and he said them again. Once more, and he could stop shaking. Three times would do it. 

When he looked up, Snape was staring at him blankly. He did not look pleased. Nor did he protest when Harry let himself out of the office.

* * *

Tom Riddle went to bed with a strange smile on his lips, and when he woke, he was confident that _today_ would be a fine day indeed. He barely said a word to his year mates, and walked in comfortable silence, thinking of how things had panned out in the weeks after The Beast had come.

They made their way to the Great Hall for breakfast, and on the way there, they caught snatches of a very interesting conversation between their head of house and Lockhart. 

“Shut it!” Harper hissed. “The Superintendent might be there too.” 

As far as Umbridge was concerned, the Slytherins watched the High Inquisitor’s ascent with varying degrees of approval. They were clearly enjoying the parole she put two of their instructors on, and took every opportunity to make suggestions that favored their agendas. 

They didn’t even need to strain their ears, Snape was speaking so loudly. He had drawn himself up, holding a Daily Prophet in one clenched hand. 

“Just what you were waiting for, I’m sure. Lockhart. Our local celebrity will surely make quick work of these Azkaban escapees. Weren’t you just saying how unlucky it had been that you weren’t there when the prisoners broke out?” Snape jeered.

There was a hush, and then whispers as the students took in this news. Some Slytherisn laughed and snickered, or just watched attentively according to their natures. Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle laughed, while Pansy and her lot shrieked unpleasant giggles. Most of the Slytherins were split between smiling and watching out of the corners of their eyes, though, as if they hadn’t yet decided the best reaction. 

“Deal with a mass breakout from Azkaban? Him?” Blaise snorted. He seemed unperturbed, unaffected by the news. Like several of the Slytherins in Harry’s year, they seemed to have been expecting this. No doubt he had been informed by Malfoy, or perhaps his mother. 

Lockhart began to speak, words bubbling up airily, “Azkaban? You don’t say. Why I just—” 

“I’m sure you’ll be eager to tell us all about it over breakfast,” Snape folded his paper in half, and walked purposefully ahead of the other professor.

As the Slytherins settled into their seats at the table, Tom noted the grim atmosphere that had enveloped the Hall. 

After heaping his plate, Blaise Zabini spoke again, “Or maybe they don’t like the threat of Azkaban criminals being made light of. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

Tom returned the look, keeping his expression blank. “Mass breakout to Sirius Black. _Black._ ” Only now did he let his disdain show, in artful and subtle intonation. “As though he could be a leader of witches and wizards.”

“Have you heard about what Black did? He gave the Dark Lord the Potters. He killed all those Muggles,” one of Tom’s year-mates explained.

“That’s just the story the informed let get passed around by the masses.” Tom took a small bowl of salad, and carefully added toast and eggs to his plate. “What has he done _since_ breaking out two years ago? Slashed a portrait? Frightened a Weasley out of sleep? Only the fact that he was able to break out himself lends him credit. But that’s only if he broke out at all… He, and the others, might have been _let_ out.” Tom pierced a bit of salad with his fork, twisting it elegantly. 

Tom gazed out over the Great Hall, watching for a certain Gryffindor’s reaction to the news. As though sensing Tom’s attention, Harry made his move. Harry might have said something to Neville, whom he’d been sitting by, or he might have said something to the table at large. Either way, Tom watched him leave his spot, and make his way to the doors.

Meanwhile, Snape still seemed to be attacking the other professor, goading, mocking or simply talking down to the professor, Tom couldn’t quite make out. 

“What’s he playing at?” Tom mused. “Whose man _is_ he, exactly?” 

Across from Tom, Draco Malfoy stiffened. “Shut it, you half-blood. You don’t know even half of what’s going on right under your nose, much less what’s going on outside.” Draco looked puffed up, proud, perhaps of his knowledge or his family’s position among the Death Eaters. 

Tom decided that he didn’t particularly like this position he held among the Slytherins. Unknown and nameless, and with only a “forgettable” past to go on, influence, prestige or standing were simply out of reach. He set his silverware down, his dark eyes shining with displeasure. If any of them recognized the look as a dangerous one, they didn’t remark on it. “The meal is a bit dull today,” Tom yawned, and stood up to find Harry. Dozens of eyes followed him leave. 

Harry, as it turned out, had gotten caught up talking with a portrait. “So, even though the rest of the school is sort of memory-modified, you aren’t. But you’ve got to have memories...the portraits guard the passwords and things. And could recognize Sirius Black...so why weren’t you affected? Do your memories work differently?”

Tom snorted. “Give him time to respond, Harry.” 

Harry whirled around. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Magical portraits, you know, are really quite fascinating. The skill in which they are rendered—their ability to interact with other portraits or the living—is determined by the power of the witch or wizard who sat the painting. The less powerful witch or wizard are reflections of how the artist saw them—two dimensional figures who merely imitate their living models. They can’t have an in-depth conversation. The portraits in the Headmaster’s office, on the other hand, could impart memories, knowledge and interact with their living counterparts.” Tom stopped to stand next to Harry, watching out of the corner of his eye to see if Harry was duly impressed with his knowledge.

"Hm. Don’t be a show off, Tom. I’m sure this portrait could have told me that..." Tom looked affronted. Harry started to laugh, and then to sing, "Tom, Tom, the piper’s son...(*3) learned to talk when he was young, and all the things that he could say, are magic tales from far away,"

Tom gazed back at Harry, unperturbed. "Harry, Harry, quite contrary...how does your knowledge grow?"

Grinning now, Harry nodded. "With my head in a book, and...wand in hand...er...I’m not good at making poetry up." He admitted. "Better at remembering it."

“And spell books all in a row.” Tom finished, unable to stop himself. "I was going to the grounds. It’s a bit…stuffy here."

Harry nodded, and without further comment, they left together.

Harry led the way, choosing the path around the Black Lake that had been so welcomingly empty at the announcement of the Tri-Wizard Tournament. They walked slowly, wrapped up in the news of the mass breakout from Azkaban.

“So.” Harry said. “If we walk around the lake, someone will spot us, and then Umbridge will make walking during breakfast against the rules. Let’s sit.” 

Tom sat next to Harry, there, by the Black Lake. Harry had chosen the most enclosed spot, a little cubby between two large trees overlooking the shore. Tom watched Harry carefully, as one might consider making their next move in a game. He moved his hand over Harry’s, hesitating for a moment before letting his hand rest on top of Harry’s. 

Harry shifted, trying to remove his hand, but only succeeded in shifting their position. Now, Tom held Harry’s hand in his. Sharp green eyes bored into him, every bit as demanding as Dumbledore’s.

Curious, Tom brushed the surface of Harry’s thoughts, only to get a nauseating sense of vertigo, and a pain that radiated from his very core. He mentally reached away from Harry, choosing instead to focus on the physical sensation of skin on skin.

Harry caught Tom’s gaze challengingly. “Holding hands, dating. Snogging. Those things other people do. I had to reject loads of girls, you know. They asked me to the Yule Ball last year…. I wasn’t sure they actually liked me, or just wanted to go with me because… well, you know. Famous. A champion.” Harry ran a hand through his messy hair, and finally pulled his hand away. He set it back down on the ground. “A compromise.” He explained, allowing his and Tom’s pinky fingers to touch.

Tom felt a strange sense of everything doubling—his feelings, curious and cautious, and what might have been Harry’s. What Harry was feeling was much stronger than his own curiosity. Harry felt something like a thrill. Tom guessed that Harry found Tom’s presence to be dangerous, unknown, and thus extremely interesting, and more than a little attractive. 

There was the feeling of something electric—or magical in some way. It was like the background hum of machinery, or the sounds of crickets or other insects crying in the night. Something in Tom made Harry’s magic tingle and react, like a memory just on the edge of his mind. A sort of magic. Harry felt such a rush of confusion, attraction and that thrill so that Tom nearly thought the emotions to be his own. 

For now, it was just enough to sit next to each other. To sit before the lake, and think.

“They keep saying something’s wrong with you,” Tom said reflectively, barely aware of Harry’s annoyed glare and tense shoulders—really, Harry was insulted too easily, “and I have to wonder…what does that mean for me? For my particular case..."

"What?" Harry blinked, startled. He had obviously expected Tom to say something about his craziness, or go on about how to get better.

Tom took a breath, staring into the lake. Harry would open up to him, if he just shared something personal. Harry would trust him.

"I’m not going to sugar coat what everyone is saying about you, Potter. You’ve heard it. Nor am I going to try and spin things to tell you ‘it’s your new way of expressing yourself’ or not to worry or some such rot. You’re different from other people. That’s done with, changed forever, maybe. So what. You’re still the best in the Defense class, they say. You’re still a fair hand at dueling. But if something’s wrong with you, famous Harry Potter, what are they saying about me?”

"I don’t really care what they say." Harry shrugged. "And I don’t know what they say about you.... most people seem to forget about you, or write you off as a quiet younger student. Part of the memory charm, I thought."

"Yes. It all comes back to memory...." Tom was quiet for a long moment, as though deciding whether or not to continue. "I have gaps in my memories... what should be rightfully mine... and what must have happened before I came to school here. "

"What? What do you mean what ‘must’ have happened? Voldemort sending you on a mission? What is your mission, anyway?"

Tom ignored that. "I can’t remember everything." Tom said simply. "I remember my...childhood. I remember my past. But how did I get here, what happened that night?" He turned to look at Harry.

"That night." Harry echoed.

"What exactly do you recall?" Tom pressed. "I can’t remember...more than hazy pieces."

Harry pulled back in on himself, much as Tom expected. This proved it, in Tom’s eyes-- whatever had happened was important. Death. Rebirth. Creation. Escape...

"You escaped." Tom said slowly. "I know that much."

Harry shrugged, and when Tom caught his gaze again, it wasn’t exactly Legilimency, but something told him Harry was thinking of a subject (any subject) to make Tom stop talking.

"I don’t pity you." Tom glowered. "So stop trying to make me shut up. We need to solve this, Mister Potter, or it’ll ruin us both."

"Do you suppose Snape knows something?" Harry asked doggedly.

Tom frowned, tempted to pull his hand away, and supposed this change of subject would have to do. "Yes. He suspects, at least...he’s most antagonizing towards Lockhart."

"Snape was a Death Eater... but I didn’t see him there, in the graveyard... I think..." Harry shivered. "And he’s teaching me occlumency." Harry snorted. "More like attacking me with legilimency-- I’m not actually learning anything."

"Are you insinuating that Snape is a Death Eater spy? That Dumbledore thinks Snape is his man, and not the Dark Lord’s. But is actually playing for the other side?" 

Harry nodded grimly. "I heard him and Karkaroff talking about the mark."

"I do wonder about that man... which he thinks he’s fooling... Being a double spy... it would be dangerous, that’s for certain."

Harry shrugged. "I’m not convinced he’s on anyone’s side. I just know he’s not trying to kill me yet."

"He could be a triple-agent..." Tom mused, thinking about exactly what one would have to say to fool both parties.

Harry groaned. "This is getting complicated."

Tom watched as the Giant Squid’s tentacle poked through the surface, lazily swiping at something. "Snape suspects Lockhart, do you think? Or do you think he’s trying to detract attention from his own doings? Or is he drawing attention to Lockhart for the sake of the light....or...he could simply detest the pompous man."

Harry snorted. "He has weird teeth." He gestured vaguely, making squiggly motions with his fingers. "Really. He said he had won the best smile for Witch Weekly."

Tom looked unimpressed. That subject was exhausted. "With the Death Eaters returned..." Tom looked up at the sky. "What sort of mischief do you think Voldemort will get up to?"

"You’re more likely to know that. Have you told Dumbledore?"

"And play right into that man’s hand? I won’t be anyone’s pawn."

"It’s called being helpful. Not being a pawn."

"Besides. What would I tell him? That Voldemort is scheming to..get you? He already knows that, and Voldemort hasn’t told me any details. I might have liked him better if he had."

"So. No guesses about what he wants with those moldy old Death Eaters?"

"None at all...aside from rebuilding his following, of course, but anyone could tell you that."

Harry sighed moodily. "No one ever tells me anything."

Tom laughed, and they sat in comfortable silence for the remainder of breakfast. When it was time to leave, Harry tilted towards Tom and craftily raised one arm, swinging it behind the other boy. Tom leaned back into the arm, but then, quick and sure as expected of a seeker, Harry’s hand crept into Tom’s bag, plucking out something shining and glittering. 

“Ha!” Harry crowed. “Bout time you gave this back.” Harry’s hand closed around his mirror, and he sprang to his feet. “I need to talk with Sirius and Lupin, you know.” He gave a cocky smile and jogged towards the castle.

Tom titled his head, and filed the information away. Sirius Black and former Professor Remus Lupin. He languidly rose to his feet, his eyes sparkling with amusement. Broke out of Azkaban to Black… “Harry, Harry, quite contrary…” (*4) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*1) 'One for sorrow.' Technically, this originally applied to magpies, but has been applied to crows as well. 
> 
> (*2) 'Four and Twenty Black Birds.' The actual poem is:  
>  _Sing a song of sixpence, / A pocket full of rye. / Four and twenty blackbirds, / Baked in a pie._  
>  When the pie was opened, / The birds began to sing; / Wasn't that a dainty dish, / To set before the king?
> 
> (*3) 'Tom, Tom, the Piper's Son,' which I first heard after reading Eldritcher (which you should read).  
> Actual song: _Tom, Tom, the Piper's Son. He learned to pipe when he was young, and all the tune that he could play, was 'over the hill and far away._
> 
> (*4) 'Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary.'  
>  _Mary, Mary, quite contrary, / How does your garden grow? / With silver bells, and cockle shells, /And pretty maids all in a row._
> 
> All of these are English rhymes.


	15. Hogsmede: they all fall down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry talks to Sirius about the other Azkaban prisoners. Tom asks to go with Harry to Hogsemeade when Lockhart turns up, distant and confused, in a pub. ( **Early November.** )

**Chapter 15:** _Hogsmede_

“Tell me about the attack.” Sirius insisted. “Your letters aren’t making any sense, Harry. I’ve told you again and again. It’s been weeks, but still nothing!” 

Harry, Ron and Hermione were all crowded around Harry’s mirror. It was a bit like a Halloween séance, only without the smoky candles and eerie music. Or ghosts for that matter.

Harry patiently explained, “There’s a memory charm.” Experimentally, he breathed on the mirror and wrote on the surface, ‘it blocks communication.’ 

Hermione watched Harry with mild surprise. “You can’t still be going…”

Sirius scrubbed at his end of the mirror. “Don’t do that. You’re just changing the subject. So a boy was nearly kidnapped, you rescued him, and became friends. Very noble, yes, and so like your father….but the situation has changed. You shouldn’t risk getting yourself into You-Know-Who’s grasp again. Not when we almost lost you.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Dumbledore reckons it was just _that_ student who was in danger. He thinks we’re all safer than the one.” 

Sirius looked unconvinced. “You know about the Azkaban breakouts. They’re all Dark Wizards, Harry…if they could catch you—”

“We wanted to hear about them. You know them, don’t you? Saw them at the prison, so…how did they stay sane?” Harry interrupted. 

Hermione clutched at Ron’s sleeves. “They’re not sane, though, are they? I saw the pictures; they all look half-starved and more like a wild creature than a rational being.” She swallowed hard. “Just what kind of threat are we dealing with?” 

Sirius considered them silently for a long while, his sallow face darkening. He looked as haunted as he had that night in the Shrieking Shack. “They will obsess over finding the Dark Lord...squabbling with each other for favor and success in his ranks. Even before Azkaban, they tortured their victims with the Cruciatus, aimed to kill, and laughed at Dark curses.” He said tonelessly. “Azkaban... I don't know what it could have done to them, or how they or You-Know-Who dealt with the effects. For starters, they're probably not starving anymore.” Sirius offered a wry smile, his eyes shifting to the side.

Harry chewed his lip, thinking about the effects of the Wizarding Prison on his godfather. Sirius was older, more hard-worn that the laughing man photographed in his parents' wedding photo. Did he ever relax, or smile? Harry remembered being welcomed into Grimmauld place, and Sirius talking to various Order members and the Weasleys. He was doing all right. But still, being trapped there for all those years...

“You were in your Animagus form most of the time.” Harry commented. “But people like Moody-- er, Barty Crouch Jr., I mean-- he was nearly killed in a few months. Then he comes back to his senses after the Imperius, and he's mad. Delusional. Thought he'd be _closer than a son_ to Voldemort, didn't he?”

Harry was unaware of the awkward glances Hermione and Ron exchanged. “Er, so they'll have something to prove. Their magic isn't depleted.” Ron hedged.

“That's true, that's true...” Sirius looked to Harry then. “But don't you lot worry about the Death Eaters. The Order, Dumbledore, everyone else will handle that. How are your classes going? Is the ministry woman still there?”

“Oh, yes.” Hermione said faintly, but she seemed to be lost in thought.

“I think she knows something weird is going on here.” Harry interjected. “The woman in pink, I mean.”

Sirius choked on a laugh. “Oh?”

“I don't think I've ever seen her in the same place as the You-Know-Who student, for example. People told her stories about the You-Know-Which Student nearly being taken away and everything, but I mean, she's like a, like a...Jubjub bird, really. Vicious, snapping jaws and all, and relentlessly self-absorbed. She doesn't care if it doesn’t suit her agenda, so she doesn't look into it. She wants Dumbledore gone, she does.”

Hermione and Ron sighed. “He’s suspicious of a Slytherin a year younger than us.” She explained.

“Not too suspicious anymore,” Harry argued. “He can't really help being related, you know. And Dumbledore is giving him a chance. He's.... something about him...” He shrugged, deciding not to explain the pinkies-touching thing the day they heard the news about the Death Eaters. "But he's suspicious of Snape. And Snape really doesn't like Lockhart. Everyone points the finger to someone else... Sirius points to me, I point to Tom, Tom points to Snape, Snape to Lockhart."

Sirius seemed to be fixating on only parts of Harry's words. "Wait, wait...it's a _boy._ You're obsessing over another boy-- errrr, not that that would bother me." Sirius said quickly. "I mean, I'm more of the bachelor type, myself, but if you fancy boys--" Sirius stopped midway. 

Hermione and Ron looked stricken.

"Is that what you think?" Harry asked, cheeks pinking. "Errr. Well. I hadn't thought about it." _Did_ he fancy boys?

Hermione looked away. "Errr, we don't need to borrow trouble. I don't know that Harry is thinking about relationships."

Ron shrugged, a surprising little smile tugging at his lips. "I dunno, I don't think it's any trouble if he's worrying about kissing girls _or_ boys. Non-issue."

Harry blinked several times. They’d gone from talking about Azkaban, to Riddle, to…kissing? 

Sirius looked intrigued and mortified all at once.

Harry shrugged. “The Walrus and the Carpenter… ‘wept like anything to see such quantities of sand,’ even though they were on a beach. Some people don’t like anything but their own back-yard…I guess some people might think, er, boys kissing is wrong, but, I never really thought about it. But I guess I… don’t.” He decided, though the thought of kissing Tom made his cheeks heat, and his stomach flop uncomfortably. He might wait on that one.

“Right.” Hermione said slowly. She grinned at Harry. “So…you want to help Riddle, then?” 

“Yes.” _Not sure how though._ He added privately.

“So you don’t think he’s in with You-Know-Who.” Hermione persisted.

“Er.” Harry fidgeted. “Sirius, now I’ve got my mirror back, I was wondering. Could you ask Lupin a question for me? It’s about the Marauder’s Map.” He said quickly.

“What about it?” Sirius asked seriously. “There aren’t any names on there that—”

“No, about how you _made_ it. I wanted to ask Lupin about the password—how you secret a password and things. I’ve got this thing I need to write about, and I don’t want it out in the open.” 

“You do realize I helped _make_ the map.” Sirius said crossly. “Why not just say so? Why do you want to know?”

“Humpty-Dumpty.” Harry replied. _My heart went hop, my heart went thump; I filled the cauldron with a pump…_ (*1)

Sirius harrumphed. “I’ll tell you what I know, and we’ll get Remus to add on, how’s that?”

Harry pulled out his parchment and waited as Sirius began explaining how to lock secrets in paper. _The Diary, the Map, my dream notes…_ Harry thought. _I’ll put it all back together again. It’ll all make sense._

o0o0o0o0o

* * *

The weekend after Halloween was a Hogsmeade weekend. Just before meeting Ron and Hermione, Harry paced under the archways overlooking part of the castle. Harry counted the beams and support, looking out to where Sirius had been held before Buckbeak, Hermione and he had rescued him. Harry remembered his godfather’s face, and the way he hovered around anyone in Grimmald Place. He felt a twinge of guilt, as he looked up at the blue sky and prepared to leave for the village. 

“What are you doing up here, Harry?” Tom’s voice was quiet, and had an odd quality to it—hesitation? Curiosity? “I looked for you.” That curve of Tom’s lip… hunger, maybe. 

“I’m going to the village in a bit. Are you?”

“Mmm. A little later, I think. There’s something I want to check.” Tom said carefully. He cleared his throat and shifted. “Could I… spend some time with you? At Hogsmeade, just the two of us. We could look around the shops, or have a Butterbeer…”

Harry stared blankly. “Just the two of us… Why? What’re you trying to hide from Ron and Hermione?” 

Tom straightened his shoulders a bit. “I want to spend time with you, you prat. Without your friends trying to coddle you and get under foot. We don’t have to visit at Hogsmeade, if that’s what’s bothering you. The library, the Chamber or any other secret rooms you lot have discovered. Empty classrooms are difficult with Umbridge insisting on no less than six inches between boys and girls.” Tom looked amused, “and she’ll change it to boys as well if we’re seen.” 

Harry nodded, thinking. Maybe he’d ask Dobby about a place they could go… The House Elf would surely know of a place out of the reach of the High Inquisitor. He shook his head, and looked off towards Hogsmeade. “You could come with us. You’re in Divination, aren’t you? We’re going to try guessing about some of the visitors at the pub by stealing glances at their palms. And doing this thing called ‘cold’ and ‘hot’ reading that I heard about on a Muggle program to make it more convincing…”

Tom looked at Harry inquisitively. When Harry didn’t elaborate, he said, “I’ll see you there, then.” Tom gave a charming smile, his gaze lingering on Harry.

“Your eyelashes are rather long. Your neck, too.” Harry pointed out without thinking. Then he flushed.

Tom laughed, the noise high and clear, melodic rather than eerie, but still Harry shivered, remembering another laugh. Tom, however, didn’t seem to notice. “I’ll see you there,” Tom said again, and gave a little bow before he withdrew.

Sometime later, Harry met Ron and Hermione and they made their way down the path. Ron grumbled all the way about the weight of his textbook and how they usually just made things up for Divination. 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ron! Harry’s actually trying to do the assignment. Just let him!” and fixed him with such an annoyed glare that Ron finally gave up.

“So. What’ve we got for homework? That palmistry review. And the dream diary. We’re meant to practice on five people…. How do we get someone to come over? Maybe I could just get a handprint off the table or something,” Ron looked at the table for signs of smudges. 

“Excuse me,” Harry raised his hand, signaling the owner and barista, Madam Rosmerta. “Could we have three Butterbeers and a few minutes to read your palm?”

Madam Rosmerta threw back her head and laughed. “Well! I hadn’t heard you were interested in Divination, Mr. Potter. I’m sure if your dad had been, he would have asked me the same thing, love. Well. Maybe for a few minutes… I’ll be right back, dear.”

Hermione looked like she’d swallowed something sour. “Not you too,” she muttered.

Harry pulled his textbook out and flipped to the palmistry section. “Remember, it’s heart, head, life. Those are the three easiest to see, and the fate line down the middle is kinda fun.” 

Ron blanched. “You mean for _me_ to read her palm?”

“Sure. I’ll do Hermione, Tom… and Luna or Neville if I see them…” Harry nudged a bit of parchment over to Ron. "Here, look at this...it's from a muggle book. It's supposed to apply to most people..." Harry pulled a stack of parchment out of his bag and let it flutter on the table. He'd copied a few of the images onto the scraps, but some of his ‘copying spells’ were just as rickety and illegible as if he'd written it.

Ron squinted and picked one up. "You just going to read one of these randomly then?"

Harry shook his head. "Nah, they won't like the reading unless it's from a star chart or something. I'm trying to memorize them before she gets back." Harry replied. "But that's probably not going to happen, so..." he shrugged.

Hermione began to busily sort the notes into the separate lines, scoffing at some of them as she went. "These don't have any sort of proof, do they? And these could apply to _any_ one." 

Harry read his notes aloud as if he hadn't heard her. "If their fate line starts at the life line, they're self-made... wait, was that right? And if it starts at the base of the thumb, family and friends are important... index to pinky means they’re in the public eye...a break is changing jobs. Crosses over the line foreshadow when they'll come across some opposition..."

"This is ridiculous. Your fate isn't written on your palm." Hermione frowned.

"Yeah, probably not." Harry agreed. "But if you spin it right, it sounds good." He tried not to laugh at Hermione's indignant expression.

"Not quite memorized, are we?" Madam Rosmerta said good-naturedly, smiling cheerily as she handed out the Butterbeers.

Ron turned scarlet. "Errrr...."

Madam Rosmerta only laughed. "Well then, I've got a few minutes before they'll need me, so I don't see why we shouldn't give it a try." Her eyes twinkled. "Your father would always try things like that too, you know, trying to distract me with a few laughs." She held out a hand to Harry, though, and not Ron.

Harry looked at her hand, "Your hands are very well cared for... my Muggle aunt has to use loads of hand creams with all of the washing up and things... does magic keep your hands nice?" Harry spotted the three lines and plunged on. "This line is your heart line...yours starts here, right on the side of your palm, and ends here, under your index finger. That means you've got a normal view of romance and love. Right, and this one's your life line...” Harry looked over at Ron. "I've forgotten that bit. Want to give it a go?"

Ron looked half-pleased, half-terrified. "Sure." He squeaked. "Life lines are really good, yeah, and yours is nice and long...and deep too. That means you're healthy." He stumbled over the basics.

Hermione sipped primly at her Butterbeer, torn between amusement and annoyance.

Harry promptly stopped listening when he noticed Professor Lockhart come in. He nudged Hermione. He nodded at Madam Rosmerta, who was looking at Ron with kindly attention, and made his way over, calling, "Be right back..." over his shoulder.

Hermione barely had time to shake her head.

"Harry!" Lockhart shifted from one foot to the next, smiling that toothy smile of his. "Yes, we are a bit overdue for a chat...I knew you'd come seek me out." He winked.

Harry didn't know what to make of that, so just said, "I just thought I'd come and talk." It was a spontaneous move that made Harry's heart speed up, and something about talking with the Professor here was nagging at him.

"Yes, yes. I dare say you're eager to be seen with me!" he chuckled.

"It's not that." Harry replied vaguely. "I don't care about being famous, Professor. You should have realized by now. It's just...it's November 2nd, and that's a...what is it called?"

Lockhart nodded seriously. "All Hallows’ Eve is followed by the Muggle All Saints Day, and that makes today All Souls Day. In the magical world, it's recognized as a day when the barriers are thinner, when we pay our respects to the deceased. Yes, yes, I did mention that last class didn't I? But I don't see what that has to do with _me._ "

"I want to read your palms." Harry blurted out. "Er. Your palm. Just the one, you see."

"Do you! I'm afraid I don't put much stock in that sort of thing, Harry. You must understand... people trying to explain away my success, or arguing with my life's calling. You know, I was asked to join the--"

"Let's sit here." Harry said, dragging the Professor firmly by the hand. Lockhart only followed feebly, his smile wavering. Without the smile, his jaw looked weak, Harry noticed.

They sat. 

"Er." Said Lockhart.

“Well, look, you've got a star here. Wow, I've never actually seen one of those...you either have had great success and good fortune, or you're lacking in confidence and have suffered a great misfortune." Harry poked the star. "Which do you think it is?"

"Success, of course. I am an amazingly successful wizard." Lockhart began to reclaim his smile before Harry interrupted him again.

"That's if it's on one of the main lines-- heart, life or head line..." Harry mused. “OK, life-line. Let’s see…you’ve got a double-life-line. That’s pretty rare too, you know. Um, that means you either have a twin—no? A soul-mate—er, right, not in a relationship, are you? Or are leading a double-life…” Harry stopped and wondered privately if Lockhart was a spy.

“Certainly not.” Lockhart sputtered. “Spies lead dastardly dangerous lives with very little acknowledgement, you know. It’s not for me, oh-no, I keep my heroics in the open. Why don’t you look at the fate-line?” 

“The line breaks off suddenly here.” Harry observed. “Like someone cut it right off.”

Lockhart smiled weakly. "There are fairy-tales about thumbs and fingers going missing, you know? All sorts like that. I always wondered, what happens to a person’s fortune if part of their hand is cut _off?_ ”

Harry kept glancing down, looking at the variations listed about each line. "The Giant's Daughter loses a pinky." Harry supplied absently. "And Wormtail lost his whole hand, didn't he?" That thought struck him so suddenly it slipped right out before he even thought of who he was talking to.

But Lockhart wasn't listening. He was off on one of his Adventures, spinning a tale and withdrawing his hand. "Yes, fairies sometimes ask for odd things for a token. Nothing like a lock of hair or a vow, no. They might ask for your pinky, all right, or they might claim all of your life because of some silly mistake-- walking widdershins around a church, for instance."

Harry looked up. "That last one was Child Roland." He said. "I didn't know you knew fairy tales, Professor."

The door to the Three Broomsticks opened. Harry was looking at Lockhart at the time, and saw out of the corner of his eye one familiar dark-haired boy enter. Sharp eyes found him immediately.

Tom Riddle made his way over to where Harry and Lockhart stood. "Hello professor, Harry." 

At the same time, someone said, "Oh, Gilderoy Lockhart! Could I please have your autograph?" a middle aged witch stepped between Harry and Lockhart, attracting even more attention to the novelist. 

"Oh, I carry signed photos just for these sorts of occasions. Here you are! Can I add your name, Miss...?" Lockhart didn’t seem to have heard Tom at all. There were fewer people asking than had been reported at a book signing earlier that year, but Harry supposed it was because the people of Hogsmeade had already seen enough of the man.

"Thank you, thank you...” Lockheart hid his hands away from Harry, as though worried Harry might start up with the palmistry again. “Yes, where were we? Childe Rowland is a fascinating story, yes it is. The young boy is the last of his brothers to chase after poor Burd Ellen, who has been stolen away to the fairy's realm. But let me tell you this, as a man who's traveled far and wide, my dear boy." He leaned in close, his eyes sparkling madly in the dim light.

"I'm not going to kill everyone I meet on the Fairy Road." Harry said flatly. "Even if they do take a bird from me."

Lockhart giggled. "Er, no, not that bit. Yes, I imagine the fairy-tale _meant_ 'good brand' as wand, and 'off with their head' meant, er, to Obliviate them, don't you think?"

Harry remained unconvinced.

Lockhart squared his shoulders and shifted, casting his gaze about the Three Broomsticks as though he expected someone to be listening. "Er, anyway, so if you find yourself in a strange land, presented with a Cup of mysterious power or a golden basin full of good foods, do not eat of it." 

Harry leaned backward, surprised. “That’s what Merlin said in the story. And bird Ellen.” 

Tom blanched, and pressed his lips together in a tight line, but in response to what? The advice Lockhart and Merlin had given? His usually controlled expression gave way to shock-- or perhaps, dread? But the Dark Lord's Horcrux, as he said he was, quickly schooled his expression into something more bored and average. His eyes searched the professor's face, and then shot to Harry. Harry wondered what he saw, what he had remembered.

Lockhart seemed to become aware of several curious and some disdainful students staring at him. Then his eyes flickered between Tom and Harry, and he began to make his way to the door, his face unreadable. 

Harry was immediately suspicious. "Aren't you going to finish the fairy tale application to real Wizarding travels?" Harry called after him, but Lockhart was waving him off, out the door as fast as he'd come. It was really most mysterious.

Tom put a hand on Harry's elbow and glanced over at the table where Ron, Hermione, and Madam Rosmerta were still sitting. "Shall we follow him? Or go back to your friends?"

Harry got a stubborn look about him, remembering how both Snape and Tom interacted with Lockhart. "Follow him." Harry always had good instincts, and right now his gut was telling him to keep an eye on Lockhart. The fact that Tom had suggested it seemed to make it that much more attractive.

So they slipped out of the Three Broomsticks, bumping shoulders and moving quickly through the streets. It was a cold day, and the wind was blowing strongly, so it should have been easy to find Lockhart. 

Instead, Harry found himself close on Tom's heels, intensely aware of their fingers-- which seemed to brush unnecessarily at times, and each instance left him distracted. He'd never felt so aware of anyone else.

“Bird Ellen was taken away because they walked widdershins around the church, you know. Taken away into fairy land… You haven’t been walking counter-clockwise today, have you?” Harry wondered if it was all the hurrying that made him flush, made his heart beat quickly.

"No." Tom replied. “Where did that man disappear to?” 

Together they searched the crowds, looking for the blond man. “Let’s look over there…” Tom casually took Harry’s hand under the pretense of leading him through a crowd of shoppers. 

But look as they might, they found neither hide nor hair of the Defense teacher.

"There's a goat." Harry pointed.

"That's the Hog's Head. Shall we go in?" Tom opened the door, gesturing for Harry to enter.

Once the two of them went in, Harry found it to be very different from Madam Rosmerta's establishment. He looked about with interest, noting the flurries of dust and the distinctly shady patronage. It was like a den of monsters, only most of them looked human. Ish.

"Quieter here..." Harry mused. He made his way to the bar, and plopped down on an open stool. Tom immediately followed suit, sitting next to him and immediately leaning close. Harry could feel his warmth, and smiled.

"What should we be looking for?" Tom mused lazily.

Harry shrugged. "We'll find Lockhart on the way out." He suggested. "After that, we can look for suspicious signs of Dark Uprisings in the corners of town and--"

Tom snorted. "No, we shall not. Trouble finds you without you looking for it, didn't you say?" He lazily drew his hands closer to Harry's, capturing one of them.

Harry tugged his hand free, but leaned in close. "So what did you have in mind?"

Tom's smile was slow and mischievous. "I want to know you." He said. "Tell me what you're afraid of... Tell me what you do besides school..." His eyes shone brightly.

Harry made an annoyed noise. "What is this, an interview?"

Tom snorted. "Fine. Don't tell me about yourself. What do you think of divination, then? Or the 'secret' club that Weasley girl is setting up?"

That caught Harry's attention. "What club?"

"Not sure. But by all the dark looks and exchanges, I'd say it has to do with the school's most neglected subject. Defense, of course."

"Ah. A dada club." (*2)

"What?" Tom frowned. 

"This is not a pipe." Harry said helpfully.

"Right... Well. Don't you want to join the club?"

"You just want an insider informant," Harry accused.

"You're the one trying to confuse me by randomly insisting on _not relevant_...art movements." Tom said loftily. "Besides, Defense is your best subject. Why wouldn't you join?"

Harry considered this. "Because they think I'm mad, untrustworthy, and generally dislike it when I open my mouth?" Thinking about it made his stomach do strange things.

“That could prove to be a problem.”

"Don't sound so smug about it... why are you glad that I can't spend time with other people?"

"Which is it, Harry? I want an informant, or I want you all to myself? You're being... obtuse." Harry stuck his chin out, and Tom sighed. "Two Butterbeers please. From the bottle." Tom ordered.

The barkeep scowled at them, and with a long-suffering sigh, popped two Butterbeers in front of them. He collected their coins without a word.

The door opened behind them, but neither Harry nor Tom heard it. They had sipped the Butterbeer in salty, sweet, warm drafts, and looked at each other without speaking. 

Harry noticed there wasn't anyone around them from school. The thought made his heart give a little hop. Harry was thinking about what Sirius had said when Tom spoke:

"Do you trust me?" Tom asked softly.

"Enough." Harry replied, eyes flicking to Tom's smile. He just had to lean in one scant inch, and he'd feel the soft breath, maybe brush with an eyelash or-- "I want to trust you. But it's... hard."

"That's rather foolish of you," Tom breathed, his lips parting as he leaned forward. "I don't trust anyone..."

Harry's heart beat quickly in his throat. It was like a small bird was caged there.

Tom was closer still. The moment was caught in glass. 

Their lips met in a slow, cautious caress. Harry concentrated on the feeling of soft skin, the taste of Butterbeer and forgot everything but the sensation of the kiss. Harry wondered at the strange feeling he felt, magnetic and compelling, and perhaps…thoroughly unnatural. Magical perhaps. His lips tingled. “Oh.”

Tom turned his head though, breaking the contact there. Harry could still feel his heartbeat, quick and light. They still touched. Tom's eyes had gone blank though, and he muttered something Harry wasn't listening to.

Tom's hands fluttered, stopping on Harry's throat, forcing his attention. "Your pulse is elevated," He tilted his head back, watching Harry through slitted eyes. His tone was not loving, he had not whispered words of sweet nothing. "Your blood flows in _his_ veins," Tom whispered. He touched his mouth to the back of his hand.

The voice came out of nowhere, clear and high. "Do you remember, then Riddle?" it was hallow, a pale imitation of his usual. 

Harry toppled his chair over backwards, and drew his wand. He stared at  
Professor Lockhart, his arm extended. Harry’s head hurt...

"Blood.... they bled you. Both of you, didn't they? That foolish rat of a man... and they actually wanted _me_ to clean up afterwards... A clean wipe...."

A flash, and Harry saw the world through snake eyes, heat making up the majority of the image, but he saw things overlaid, recognized things as though everything was through his own eyes. Just an instant, a strong feeling-- such rage. Harry knew that He had to come-- to take back what was his.

And then the image was gone and the feeling passed.

"You were there." Harry whispered, horrified as realization and memory peaked in the wake of the waking-dream. "You were at the Graveyard."

Tom slid off the stool and stood. His hand clutched at the wand Harry had no memory of.

Lockhart’s face began to change. His handsome features lost definition all at once as he skin sagged and eyes bulged. It was as though something inside had snapped and rustled its way to the surface. Trying to get out.

_Click, click…rustle._

“Boys.” Lockhart said in a low tone. “I begin to lose my patience with you…” 

Harry backed off a few steps to look into mad eyes. “Professor, what do you mean?”

“You shouldn’t have said that.” Lockhart’s fingers were rigid and stiff, clambering spider-like and jerkily up the table. 

“You’re not well.” Harry said.

“I’ve been _not. Well_ for as long as you.” Lockhart snarled. “But no one cares about poor, ‘cowardly’ Lockhart. I know what the teachers think of me. I know how many people even _thought_ about looking!” He spoke too fast. Far less like the lilting, ironic flare he used in class—more like Snape when he was really angry. 

“You went missing.” Tom supplied. “Nobody came to look for you, and it upset you, understandably. But you’re doing all right. You’re no coward, Professor.” He said calmly, smoothly, as though talking down a beast. “I bet you could even undo the memory charm.”

Lockhart began to laugh. “Do you know where they hid my heart, Potter? ” ‘ _Riddle me that, said the giant to the youth, and you may have my daughter._ ’(*3) Lockhart lunged, his mouth wide open, his fingernails raised to gorge flesh.

 

A sliver of a memory danced before Harry’s eyes. _He was tied to the stone, looking on as Lockhart was made to watch as…_

_…as Tom Riddle’s throat was slit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*1) Humpty Dumpty’s Recitation, by Lewis Carroll. Technically, he said “kettle,” though, not cauldron. 
> 
> (*2) Dada, or Dadaism was an art movement of the European avant-garde in the early 20th century, most famous perhaps for the artwork Harry mentions, as well as other interesting (and often odd) everyday items.
> 
> (*3) reference to the Giant's Daughter in Nix Nought Nothing. See also, "the troll's daughter" and "The Giant Who Had No Heart in His Body" Also, the Celtic Fairy Tale "The Battle of the Birds"
> 
> Nix Nought Nothing summary: Nix Nought Nothing was what a prince (whose father was not home to Christen him. An example of unbaptized/not-christened children being easier to steal away by fairies. Or giants, in this case...) was called. His father, the king, could not pass a river to come home. So there's this giant, offering to help. His price? Nix Nought Nothing. The king agrees, and is shocked to find that is what his wife has called the boy. So, they try to give the giant the henwife and the gardener's sons (or butler, depending on version...), but the Giant is clever and figures it out. At last he gets the correct boy, and raises him alongside his daughter. Then he discovers they have become fond of one another, so he sets the boy impossible tasks (like draining a lake by nightfall, cleaning a stable which has not been cleaned for seven years and is seven leagues long, or getting a single feather for each color of bird that there is, etc , etc, different versions have different tasks), which he is only able to do with the help of the Giant's Daughter. Nix Nought Nothing is bid to climb a tree which is seven miles tall, so the Giant's Daughter cuts off her fingers and toes to make a step of them so that he might use it to climb the tree to get the eggs (breaking her pinky in the process, in some stories.) Finally, Nix Naught Nothing flee together, and she throws her comb behind her to create a thick briar, or her hair dagger, or her magic flask and her father dies. Henwife attempts to get revenge because the prince has temporary amnesia, but all ends well. XD
> 
> Also, it's very interesting that the rock Guinevere caught with her comb is several tons. (See Briggs, 'The Fairies in Tradition and Legend, page 78) Which reminded me of the Giant's Daughter in Nix Nought Nothing.
> 
> Thoughts? ♥


	16. Harry remembers.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lockhart snaps. Memories fall together.
> 
> (This chapter continues on the same day as the last chapter; **early November.** )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter was haaard to write…I’m a bit anxious about it still, to be honest. ^^;

**Chapter 16:** _Harry remembers._

Harry stared past Tom, past Lockhart, the Hog’s Head entirely forgotten. He only saw the Tom in his memory—pale with blood loss and his throat red. The wound wept while Tom soundlessly cursed his captors. 

‘ _Return to me._ ’ Voldemort had said.

Harry was rooted to the spot—there was so much blood—unable to process anything but the memory. His arm was on fire where Wormtail had cut him, and his vision swam just as it had that night. He couldn’t move.

Lockhart was another matter. He leaned in, about to wrap his hands around Harry’s throat when Tom’s curse hit him in the chest. He began to cry, “My heart!” while at the same time, another noise started. It was a strange, scraping sound. It tittered on the edge of awareness, and stirred the quiet attention of anyone present. 

_scratch, scratch. scrrrrr…_

The Hog’s Head began to stir. As witches and wizards realized that it _wasn’t_ an irate professor chastising two wayward students, they acted according to their character. Some leaned in to watch. Some leapt to their feet, fleeing before the ill luck could affect them. Then the whole lot of them saw the twitch of Lockhart’s skin, the tapping of fingers that grew too long. 

“Expecto Patronum!” someone said—and a huge goat cantered out into the bar. The same someone started hissing a message at it, “—away fast. The students—” before something louder whirred.

The way Lockhart stumbled was like the Beast. It was as though that bloated thing and this shivering, furious man were two sides of the same coin. 

Harry knew he had to act, but he couldn’t. The memories wouldn’t fade, but if he stayed locked there in that night, Lockhart could…

_Watched Lord Voldemort rise again—_

_(let it drown. please, let it drown.)_

_Harry had thought he’d witness nothing more horrible than Lord Voldemort be given corporal form, but then a shadowy figure had edged into Harry’s sight, clothing tattered. His memory wavered like ripples on a pond._

Harry couldn’t tell if he was mixing the memories, or if it had happened again. _The cauldron. Harry’s own blood—but then there was a boy, not the hideous snake man. And the boy was taken, tied, and bled at the monster’s bidding._

_Tom’s mouth had moved. He had been a sacrifice, returned to Lord Voldemort at his rebirth, shackled to flesh and given voice, only to lose it again. His expression was one of pure loathing, and a single line of spittle dripped into the blood. Harry watched it fall._

Harry’s attention snapped back to the present. He no longer felt so detached, and started to breathe in the moment—he felt like he had before the Graveyard, almost. Harry lurched out of his chair, bringing his wand to hand. He thought briefly, ‘ _the good brand is a wand, and to strike down his foes is to Obliviate them._ ’ Lockhart had said.(*1) If he wasn’t a Death Eater (and Harry was sure of this), was he cursed? Imperiused? Or was it a different sort of coercion? 

Tom stood languidly, watching Lockhart with feigned disinterest. He used his wand to create a glowing frame of light and cast it toward the professor. The frame of light widened above Lockhart’s head, and Lockhart froze, watching the ring of light. 

“Do you seek to bind one of the fair-folk? To strip me of—” Lockhart said. 

“You’re no fairy. Hardly a wizard at all. And no one’s stripping you of anything.” Tom interrupted. “Tell me. Speak; Lord Voldemort knows when you lie…so. Why is it that you told Harry of the cup?” 

Lockhart shook his head and something creaked where his heart should have been.

Harry looked from Tom to Lockhart. “You mean Merlin’s advice to Child Roland? Do not drink anything offered.” Harry felt his brow furrow in confusion. No one had anything to drink.

Tom ignored him. 

Lockhart grimaced and threw his arms out in a windmilling motion. “Wind which loves me, knows my true self, tear down these walls and crush them!” 

Harry resisted the urge to look where Lockhart gestured, and felt the air against his skin with uncomfortable sensitivity, but no wind answered Lockhart’s call. He was relieved. Fair-folk were notoriously hard to banish.

Tom’s face twisted into a mask, his own feelings only betrayed by his ragged breathing. 

Harry pulled his wand from his pocket and brandished it. “Stupefy!” His aim was true, but Lockhart still swerved out of range—half-tripped, really. Unnerving. That kind of luck usually belonged to Harry, not his enemies.

“Harry!” Hermione shouted.

Harry turned. By now Ron and Hermione had miraculously found them (perhaps they guessed Harry would be in the building others ran from). They flew into the pub, wands ready.

Harry felt like he could follow Lockhart’s every move—and see the grain of Lockhart’s wand, or even count the number of teeth shown as he raged. Harry sucked in his breath, waiting for the right moment.

Lockhart fell again as Harry rolled out of the way, and Harry timed his stunner with Tom and Ron. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry noticed Hermione scanning the room, casting some variation on _Protego_. Then he glanced back at the professor. 

“Got you.” He said, smiling grimly. This time, Lockhart was hit. 

“Has he been Imperiused?” Hermione asked, her voice unnaturally high. She wrung her hands even as her impressive shield-spell glimmered. 

The barkeep was back, blocking Lockhart from view. He was taller than Harry expected, and somehow familiar with piercing blue eyes. Funny, how he hadn’t recognized those eyes…. “Students should return to Hogwarts immediately and explain what they saw to their professors. Now. Get out of my bar.” 

“Dumbledore?” Harry asked, incredulous. 

“He’s right you know. We should head back.” Hermione hesitated.

Another voice jumbled Harry’s concentration: “Harry Potter! To the castle this instant!” Professor McGonagall shouted as she put her hands on the door. She had barely caught her breath.

Ignoring the interruption, Tom glanced at the barkeep as he slid next to Harry. “ _Aberforth_ Dumbledore. I’ve checked the body. There’s a faint pulse, but something else is in the chest-cavity.”

Hermione shrieked, her hands flying over her mouth. She looked horrified. “He hasn’t a heart?” 

“The Warlock’s Hairy Heart? Has he got nothing in there?” Ron choked.

“The Fairy have taken it.” Harry supplied. “He doesn’t know where it’s gone. He wanted us to find it for him…in return for a memory he took.” 

Tom jabbed Harry sharply. “You don’t want that memory.” 

“You do.” Harry retorted, but Tom was ignoring him. 

Hermione dashed across the room, but Aberforth (not Dumbledore, Harry had to remind himself) blocked the man from inspection. 

Nearby, Professor McGonagall took one look at Lockhart and shook her head. “You all have some explaining to do. Professor Snape and Hagrid will meet you on the path; go back immediately.”

Harry and Tom looked from McGonagall to the barkeep in quiet contemplation. Hermione was also resisting the demand to get back to school—she was entirely too concerned over the Puppet Lockhart. It probably wasn’t healthy to form attachments…

Ron took a deep breath. “Sir, maybe we should wait for one of those professors. We were all witnesses and—”

Hermione shook her head, watchful of their Head of House. “No, it’s no use for us to stay. We can see ourselves back; the path is well protected.” She shot a look at Tom, her expression too complicated to interpret. 

Harry didn’t particularly care either way. 

Professor McGonagall was talking to Aberforth, gesticulating toward Lockhart. She gave them one final look, casting a glance at the door before returning her attention back to the adults even as Tom pushed Harry out of direct sight.

 

Tom's hands brushed against Harry's arm. Harry assumed he would let go, or pull his arm to the door, but Tom... Tom took Harry's arm, and began to examine it. "How did this happen? I didn't see..." Tom traced the abrasion.

Harry winced and tried to pull away.

Tom smiled, and kept his grip firm.

"It looks like it's just a cut... shall I Episkey it for you?" Tom said huskily.

Harry blinked and tried to smile, but he was too distracted. The clear focus that he'd experienced in the fight was leaving him, and only a dull feeling of lost clarity remained— he _could_ have done anything, interpreted any move. 

Except, apparently, Tom Riddle, who was looking at him as though he wanted a kiss.

“It's fine... Madam Pomfrey will see to it," Harry awkwardly stole a glance in Hermione and Ron's direction.

"And look at that.... is this singed?" Tom fingered the edges of Harry's robe.

"Err... no. Well, it might be. But not from today. Are you all right?" Harry tentatively grasped Tom's hands, and began to tug at them. At last, Tom let go.

"Just bruises..." Tom touched a tear on his sleeve. "I got pushed against the table."  
"His attacks weren't really all that effective, I suppose." And still, Tom drank in the sight of Harry.

Harry wondered if that meant anything. It could mean that Lockhart and Tom were on the same side, couldn't it? Or that Lockhart thought so. Well, maybe Lockhart hadn't really been on anyone's side... he could have been coerced. He seemed like a coercible person, really...

"Hermione and I are both fine." Ron said crossly. "Thanks for asking."

Harry snorted. "Yeah, I know. I saw you come in. And you know just as many jinxes and curses as I do, so I knew you'd be fine."

Hermione pushed past all of them, looking agitated. "We need to get back to Hogwarts, and quickly."

“We’re going!” Ron scowled, throwing a glance at Tom. 

Tom didn't change his pace though. He kept close to Harry, and as they headed toward the village boundaries, he started up again. "Don't assume that you're safe, Harry. Just because he wanted you alive before doesn't mean that he needs you alive any longer. Take all precautions."

Ron bristled. "Harry knows that. And we'll all be together!"

"Wait." Tom said, guiding Harry off the path. 

“Harry.” Hermione said. She watched distrustfully, but she didn’t say anything more than that—a quiet plea to go on.

"You're bleeding— just at the forehead." He stared, fascinated at the droplet of blood before reaching out and wiping it away. His hands were soft, his expression not quite something Harry could read. Gentle. Possessive? Alluring...Maybe all of those.

Tom traced the outline of Harry's scar with a fingertip. Harry flinched as his nail scraped the sensitive tissue.

"Stop it! You prat, that hurts!"

Tom laughed, his voice all low and purry. "Your scar... does it often bleed? It looked red that other day..." Again, his fingers reached to touch, but Harry stepped back.

"I told you, that _hurts_. Leave it alone..." Harry paused, considering. "You seem... strangely happy, Tom Riddle." Harry frowned.

Tom laughed again, and pulled Harry closer.

Harry resisted the urge to step in closer only barely. He cocked his head and imagined he could still feel that kiss. 

Harry let himself go, touching Tom’s cheek, his hair, then mimicking the slow and darting massage. When Tom moved his kiss farther down, Harry let him. His senses prickled. 

“You…are enjoying yourself aren’t you? About to fall asleep.” Tom taunted. Harry liked the sound, but not the implication. Sure enough, Tom pinched next, making Harry’s skin red.

“Quit.” Harry disentangled their arms, leaned in and nibbled at Tom’s neck. Right there, where the shoulder met… 

“I can barely feel that.” Tom complained. “You’re just getting me wet.”

Harry experimented.

“Uh, Harry? McGonagall is looking your way.” Ron said under his breath. 

Harry ignored him, too curious about Tom. "Does violence excite you? That's um...interesting. I mean, fascinating." Harry was surprised to find that he actually meant that, and began to frown. 

Tom smiled wickedly.

"I didn't mean that," He lied, mortified.

"Hormones," Hermione grumbled. "You’d probably find anything attractive at this point. But enough about that! Keep up your pace!"

Harry barely heard her. Something about Tom…

“Look at you…” Tom drawled. “Your lips must be sore…but you never feel so much as when you feel pain... I’ll show you.” 

Tom’s words echoed. A familiar emptiness pulled at his conscious, reorganizing what should have been a blank wall. Harry had been tied to the gravestone, his blood had been let. Voldemort spoke, but not to Harry. But in his memory, it seemed that Voldemort was speaking to him—softly, if not gently in a quiet, unassuming tone that Harry had never heard the madman use before. 

‘ _Listen as your heart beats. Furiously winding tighter the mechanism to your demise. Tom Riddle; feel your breath catch as your blood drains and know this… Power and knowledge will be at your fingertips, and I shall show you a new eternity._

 _‘Mine._ ’ 

Harry remembered. _Tom’s pallid face, where the line of red had been drawn. His lips moving soundlessly before he stole a wand with a summoning. Then the vicious wound at his neck closed, and Voldemort lost his would-be stabilizer, his elixir of youth made of his own blood and bone._ And Harry watched.

There in the graveyard. _As Harry was paralyzed, weakened from blood-loss and shock, Tom sprang up. His eyes were wild. His teeth were stained red. He jabbed with the wand, hissed at the snake, and wrestled his way out of Voldemort’s silver-handed servant. Tom smiled, bright and bloody. He was jubilant, and mocking even though he surely understood he was not in the privileged position. Harry remembered Tom snatching up, pulling Voldemort down, his young hands pulling the white face closer, attempting to assert his dominance—or at least confirm his recklessness. He smothered Voldemort’s pale lips with a fiery passion that Harry didn’t want to understand. And in an instant, Harry caught a whispered snatch of a serpentine vow._

“ _If you take my magic, I’ll have you. You think you can absssorb my magic? No. Sssee my ssstrength!_ ” Tom hissed. “I _will take everything. I will devour you._ ” With that, the memory was snatched away again. Lockhart’s Obliviate still held other secrets—for now. Harry stumbled on the path, trying to make sense of memory.

“Listen.” Tom turned away, his touch lingering only briefly. He wet his lips and stopped moving; he wasn’t as attentive as he’d been minutes before. Instead, he looked shaken. 

Harry turned behind them to see where McGonagall was levitating Lockhart along. The other Dumbledore was staring into the darkened interior, wary, that much was obvious. Lockhart floated by, and his whole face looked under-developed. His eyes sagged and his jaw fell loosely open. Harry wondered how anyone could have thought the man handsome. For instance, Tom’s features were strongly alluring even when he was angry. Or especially when he was feigning sleep. 

Tom’s fingers were still interlaced with Harry’s, but slack. Tom’s bright eyes were fixed on a point distant on the horizon, his mouth pressed tight in concentration.  
“Tom?” Tom’s eyes seemed alight with some inner fire, completely focused on something. “Are you remembering—”

Tom pulled away from the path, his hand wrenching away from Harry’s. Harry tried to see if he held a wand, looked around to see if he’d missed some imperious or even another Death Eater—

But Tom seemed alone. Harry took a step toward the castle. Had Tom struck some kind of bargain with the Dark Lord after all? Was he giving some signal through his own link with Voldemort? Harry tried to feel the presence, whatever it was that Snape insisted he cast out, but there was nothing. No hint of other eyes, no vision of the chamber. 

“Tom—you’re not the one sending visions, are you?” Harry asked, trying and failing to keep the suspicion from his voice.

“What? No, of course not.” Tom composed himself, and began to walk briskly up the path. 

"Harry," Hermione said tensely. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you about, and I've only just remembered."

Harry, still watching Tom, barely slowed to accommodate her. "What?"

"You've been trying to tell us about _Tom Marvolo Riddle_." She explained, clenching her hands.

Harry glanced at her, annoyed. "And?"

"This is just— this is preposterous!" She shook her head and huffed. "How could we not see it?"

"Not see that I like boys? Well, I think it's all right. Understandable, really. I didn't notice, either..."

"No! That's not it! I understand now— he wasn't here before! This is his first year at Hogwarts— but this is— it's impossible,"

"The spell was linked to Lockhart, clearly." Tom muttered.

"I've already solved that mystery." Harry replied. Then he stopped. "You said _Dumbledore_ did it. And he agreed!"

"He did... part of it. He finished it properly. But it was supposed to work without his help in the original plan."

"Plan!" Hermione all but hissed. "Harry! You mean to say he's been telling you about— about— You-Know-Who?"

Tom levelled her with a scathing glare. "We'll tell you about it at the castle. For now, we've got to get back on the grounds."

Harry looked from Hermione to Ron. "So you remember that Tom's a new student? Or is it only that you're _able_ to hear me when I talk about it?"

"I don't really understand the specifics," Tom said. Harry rather thought he was lying— Tom hated to be thought to be out of The Know, after all.

"Maybe it was cast by Lockhart and Voldemort on you... and Lockhart actually managed to cast a counter charm or something. Or maybe it was on his heart or whatever's in there now... and it got out or something. Did anyone check?" Harry looked to the ground, half expecting to see some kind of heart skipping along behind them.

“ _Run. It’s coming._ ” Tom hissed.

“Professor! There’s something—” Harry thought he heard the sound of wings, and looked to the tree-line, but there was nothing. Nothing of note that is. He turned to Tom questioningly. 

Harry pulled his wand out again, ready to stun anything that came at them. But he couldn't see— there. He felt it rather than saw it. It must have been under some kind of cloaking spell. It rushed past him, setting his teeth on edge and caressing his skin like a cold breeze. It was maddeningly close.

“ _Stupefy!_ ” Harry shouted, aiming it in the direction.

Too far and too slow, Harry saw the huge figure of Hagrid and a smaller, darker figure close on his heels. The two professors wouldn’t make it in time.

Then Tom crumpled. He wasn't hit. Harry knew he _couldn't_ have been— it was the thing. The Beast was back...hadn't Lockhart said it?

The beast flew straight out of the sky, and Harry thought that he would be borne away like the stolen child. _Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild, With a faery, hand in hand, For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand._ (*2)

Could it be? Maybe the beast was not Voldemort’s, and it was not after Harry. Not when a piece of Voldemort’s memory was about, kissing enemies and losing himself. Tom was weak, easy to take. Unless it was Voldemort after all, the grim specter of death born of a cauldron (and his old self, the life’s blood of a boy who wasn’t completely damned). But why _Tom?_ Why not Harry?

The Beast turned, pawing at the ground with its talons. Spittle dripped from its ghastly lips. It did not speak, only looking at the empty spaces. Tom was beneath its hulking form, unmoving. The grey wings spread, revealing the monstrous figure underneath.

It was white like something that lived underground, bloated and disfigured. He took his wand in his hand and shouted, “Stupefy!” Before he could think, and the air around him shimmered, breaking the fuzzy outlines around him. He didn’t care, he just started running. “Expelliarmus!” _Tom,_ he thought.

The magic was ineffective against the Beast, and the thing turned on him. It flicked its arm wildly. Time slowed. Harry could see the pale, bone-white skin and blue shadows as its fingers curled upward, completing the wordless spell. The responding force made Harry stumble. It stomped its left talon while energy began to swirl and pool where Harry had been a second before. 

The Beast snorted softly. A purple tongue teased the air, and it turned its face to and fro, sniffling. _Whiffff._

“It can’t see you!” Harry shouted, sprinting as though his life depended on it. He raced to the left, angling another stunner in its direction. “Don’t say anything, don’t move. It’s blind, or Tom put an invisibility spell on. Don’t— _uumph_!” he exhaled sharply as the earth swung up at him. Or had he tripped? 

“Get back!” Hagrid roared, but he was still so far off. Behind him, Professor Snape shot off some kind of spell, but it tapered out before it could strike. 

“Stupefy!” Hermione shouted from behind Harry. Perhaps his friends were too loyal for standing still and out of the way… But she wasn’t near as quick as him, and another stamp of the feet had the ground reaching up and buckling under her. Then there was a flash of something electric blue, and she fell with a quiet hiss of pain.

Harry’s heart must have stopped. He couldn’t see for an instant as wild, blinding fear raced through him. 

“Hermione!” Ron shouted, staggering under the spell too. He had no time, no time at all. “Enervate, enervate!” 

Harry stumbled again, slowly getting to his feet. He needed to find cover, to attack from behind, to _shower fire and electricity on it until it drops dead._ He would strangle it—this was no Voldemort. Just like that, anger replaced fear. 

The Beast walked down the path quietly, seeking, searching. It snuffled once and stepped back toward where it had dropped Tom. 

Harry moved. He was close enough now, and Hermione wasn’t dead—Ron hadn’t screamed or cried or anything, so she _couldn’t_ be. Harry reached out and swung at the bloated thing, watching its red eyes focus on Ron. Not blind after all.

Its mouth opened, but it spoke no words that Harry could discern. It smacked its lips and leered. 

Harry leaned away, his fingernails biting into cold, damp flesh (his skin crawled after, even as he slammed into the ground again). This time he lay there, dazed. He couldn’t see anything but white. 

“Stupefy!” Snape intoned. “Move, Potter, or risk being hit.” 

The white flashed brighter from somewhere behind him, Ron gagged. The Beast shuffled, moaning in desperate hunger. Chains rattled in Harry’s mind, and its talons scraped the dirt—

Closer, closer.

Harry imagined he could feel its breath on his neck, its saliva dripping on him. He could almost taste its musk, the wet and putrid smell of it. He rolled and scrambled to get his hands and feet under him. Large arms wrapped around his middle and hauled him upward. “Put me down! We need to fight. It’s got Tom!”

“Dumbledore said to get ye to the castle.” Hagrid’s lumbering gait pulled them farther away from Tom. 

Another spell went flashing before his eyes, and a familiar voice bellowed. Yellow flames fell like a bizarre kind of rain, perhaps meant to startle the beast. The chains snapped, and the thing fell back.

Harry lay there, stunned.

“Get them out of here!” Professor McGonagall demanded. She wielded her wand with frightening intensity. 

The Beast seemed altogether uninterested. It had Tom, and it flexed its wings to shield itself. It disappeared from view, the cloaking spell reactivated. 

Harry couldn’t see anything. Hagrid held him fast. The Beast had Tom, and there wasn’t anything he could do. “TOM!” he shouted uselessly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*1) Childe Rowland again, longer note in chapter 8.
> 
> (*2) _The Stolen Child_ by W.B. Yeats, 1886. One of his beautiful, often-quoted poems in my experience.


	17. The Memory Charm is Lifted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry must deal with the repercussions of Lockhart's charm failing. Hermione and Ron remember clearly at last.
> 
>  
> 
> (This chapter continues shortly after the last chapter; **early November.** )

**Chapter 17:** _The Memory Charm is Lifted_

Some time passed. Harry, Hermione, Ron (and Lockhart, Harry supposed) were all probably in the Hospital Wing. Harry recognized the way the light shone in and the smell of freshly pressed linens. He barely registered the rest until someone touched a hand to his shoulder. 

“Harry Potter…you are awake, I trust? Your glasses are on the bed-stand.” Professor McGonagall said softly. “We must discuss what happened.”

Harry looked toward his teacher. Without his glasses, everything looked soft-focused…a blur of colour and light. He couldn’t make out her expression. “You didn’t get Tom back.” 

She sighed. “Listen to me; this is very important for you to understand. Mr. Riddle…he was no student.” McGonagall told him severely. “We’re fortunate that no Death Eaters made it to the path. Perhaps it’s for the best…we could not keep him here. He is not part of our school.” 

Harry propped himself on his elbows to frown better. “I knew that. Snape knew that; probably you all did! You were willing enough to go along with what Dumbledore said just this morning. Now that you’ve lost Tom, you’ll change your mind? Why? So you can say you’ve not lost any more students?” Harry glared.

McGonagall folded her hands tightly. Her voice was only slightly shrill. “Please contain yourself, Mr. Potter. Tom Riddle was a spy; he has no place here.” 

“He isn’t! He wasn’t!” Harry said furiously. “And even if he was sent to be, Dumbledore trusted him. If that’s enough to keep _Snape_ in everyone’s good graces, why isn’t it enough for Tom? We need to get him back. You’ve no idea what they’re going to do to him!” Images of silver brands (*1) came to mind. 

“Nor do you.” McGonagall said tersely. “First. We at the school have to protect you; all of the students. Dumbledore believes that You-Know-Who is back. Mr. Riddle was practically proof of that. If You-Know-Who starts to think that his bid for secrecy is up, there’s no saying what he’ll do. We need to keep the castle safe and out of the influence of Death Eaters.”

“So you’re going to chuck out Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle, and Nott and…all the rest?” Harry demanded. “I don’t think so.” 

“Listen to me!” McGonagall snapped. “Today, we’ve lost our Defence teacher to madness.” She paused for this to sink in. “He’s to be sent to St. Mungo’s as soon as he’s stable; the High Inquisitor is to take his place. She may already be on her way. The Ministry will be at Hogwarts. You must be careful!” 

Harry turned away. “I’m not convinced you’re doing anything.” Harry snatched for his glasses, fumbling.

“Well, you’ll just have to trust in Dumbledore and the decisions he makes.”

“Did Dumbledore make this decision then? Dumbledore would let a student be spirited away by that thing? That’s rubbish. He would _never_ \--” 

There was a rustling noise from the other side of the infirmary. “Professor McGonagall. Mr. Potter needs to rest. This conversation can continue at a later date.” Madam Pomfrey bustled over. 

Harry glanced at the door, wondering if she meant to warn them that Umbridge was coming, or if Madam Pomfrey was being her usual self. “There’s nothing wrong with me.” He said.

Madam Pomfrey shook her head, her lips pressed firmly. “Is that so? So you suppose you yourself can determine if you’re fit to leave the Hospital wing then?” 

“Yes. Yes, I would say I can.”

Madam Pomfrey harrumphed. “You’re not leaving. Not yet.” 

Harry leaned back on the pillow and crossed his arms. 

Madam Pomfrey ushered Professor McGonagall from the room, and as soon as she was out of range, Harry swung out bed and tip-toed over to where Ron and Hermione were. Hermione still slept, and Ron sat in a chair at her side. Harry sat on the end of her bed. 

“So.” Harry said bitterly. “You think Tom ought to be left kidnapped too, then?” 

Ron scowled. “You’re my best mate Harry, but sometimes, you make no sense. What do you see in him?” 

Harry matched Ron’s expression. “Well you know, I knew he was new and probably a spy from the beginning. I’ve had two months to argue and watch him. He wasn’t doing anything—except watching me, but everyone does that.” 

Ron was not impressed. “That’s not helping.” 

“He didn’t try and chuck me at the Beast after it dropped him the first time.” Harry replied. “And he didn’t curse me once, but I tried to curse him a couple of times.” 

Ron swore.

“And he didn’t know about the Chamber, not properly. Or about Quirrel. If he was a spy, he’d have heard all about it. All of it, up to last year…in the Graveyard. Him not knowing anything…not ever leaving Hogwarts until today? And when he did, he gets caught! He’s not with them. He’s a victim.” 

“I don’t know about that, Harry…” Ron said, growing red in the face.

Hermione stirred, and Harry looked at her expectantly. “Wake up already!” he teased. “I’ll let you sleep after.”

Hermione mumbled something incoherent. 

“No one ever wakes you up after something happens.” Ron said irritably. “Not even last year, when we were trying to figure out if you were ok—”

Harry shrugged. “I wouldn’t have minded if you did. I could have figured I wasn’t dead a bit faster.”

Ron stared at him. “…the things that come out of your mouth…” 

Hermione sat up quickly, she glanced around the Hospital Wing, and eyed Harry’s rumpled covers. Her eyes travelled to the curtains drawn around another cot at the far end of the room. She seemed to be thinking very fast.

“I’ll get some tea.” Ron muttered.

“Harry,” Hermione said slowly, “what happened? Was Hogwarts—did they get in?” Her face was wan. 

“The Beast took Tom. No one else got hurt but us. No one in the castle anyway. I don’t think technically the Beast touched the Grounds—just the path outside the gates. We’ll probably be stuck inside Hogwarts all year now.” 

Hermione said nothing until Ron gave her a cup of tea. “Is that where Lockhart is?” 

“Yeah. That’s him there.” Ron supplied. “He hasn’t woken…they’re saying he might not. But they’re also saying he’s not right in the head, so he must’ve woken at some point. Else how’d they know?”

“How long have we been…asleep?” Hermione asked tentatively. 

“Er,” Ron said. “I dunno. A day? Less. Um. A few hours I guess.” 

Hermione turned back to Harry, frowning. “You’ve been secretly dating Tom Marvolo Riddle.” 

“Er. Were we dating?” 

“You know what I mean!” She snapped. “How is it possible? Why did we believe that rubbish about him having always been here?” 

“There was a spell tied to Lockhart. There were two spies sent here; Lockhart and Tom, only Tom wasn’t partial to spying, so he didn’t. He got in trouble with Voldemort, as far as I can understand, so the Beast came when Lockhart sent a signal to take Tom away. Unfortunately for them, they lost their other spy due to…uh…”

“Mental breakdown?” Ron suggested. 

Harry squirmed. “You know that’s what they’re saying about _me._ ”

“Nah.” Ron said forcefully. “They’re all nutters. You’re just…uh…”

“Not broken.” Harry replied.

“Yeah.” Ron agreed. 

Hermione shuffled noisily with her blankets and set her cup aside. She flung her arms around Harry. “Don’t do anything stupid!” After a moment, she released him. “I can’t believe Hogwarts has been infiltrated like this! What exactly is he? The Diary was destroyed.” 

“Um.” Harry said. “He said he was a Horcrux. But I don’t know exactly what that is. It wasn’t in the books I read.”

“Which ones did you look at?” 

“Oh, I don’t know…”

Hermione shook her head, curls swaying. “I haven’t even heard of it…but we’ll figure it out. Tell me about the memory charm.”

“Tom said it was set on Lockhart, tied to him. He said that Dumbledore finished it to make it complete and accept Tom into the castle without prejudices. He said that this was our time to, uh, what was it. Make friends. Turn him over to the light side, or something like that.” 

Hermione considered this slowly. “Dumbledore thought he could be swayed then. Like Professor Snape.”

“Or he was just saying that so Tom could let his guard down.” Ron suggested. “And he was really watching him the whole time—‘friends close, enemies closer.’ That sort of thing.” 

Harry frowned. He hadn’t thought of that. 

“What was Professor McGonagall talking to you about earlier? You were shouting a bit.” 

“She said Tom wasn’t a student and didn’t deserve to be rescued.” 

“Did she really?” Ron leaned forward. “This is serious, Harry. How do we know anything?” 

“I’m going to talk to Dumbledore.” Harry insisted. 

Some time passed with the three of them silent. Ron moved to sit by Harry, and they stared gloomily at the lump that was Lockhart. 

Eventually, Madam Pomfrey returned, checked their temperatures and gave them each a draft of potion. “This is for your nerves. That spell of the beast was an odd one—you shouldn’t be casting any magic for today. _Rest._ I’ll have you overnight for observation, but if you wear yourselves out, it’ll be a week.” 

When she didn’t make them return to their own beds, Hermione and Ron settled next to each other, and Harry dragged a pillow over to the foot of the bed. He jabbed at the mattress, hoping for an expanding spell. 

“Harry! She just said not to do magic!” Hermione whispered. 

Harry hastily set his wand aside. “I wasn’t!” 

Madam Pomfrey returned, eyeing Harry suspiciously. She had a basket of chocolates and other sweets. “You’ve had visitors. Eat up, and then sleep; the school will be fine without you for today.” 

They each took a chocolate frog. Harry glanced briefly at his card-- Andros the Invincible—and unwrapped the frog. It had one good jump before he caught it, examined it, and nibbled a toe. Words jammed the edge of his consciousness, but he managed not to think too much of them.

Ron was busy scanning the items in the basket. “This one’s from Luna. It looks like…chocolate toadstools? Oh! And there’s a really big chocolate bar from Neville…” 

Hermione was staring into her teacup. “Neville and Ginny have been getting on pretty well, haven’t they?” 

“Yeah. I guess so.” Ron replied. 

“You know they’re doing this…group. It’s a DADA club, sort of. They meant for it to be like Lockhart’s, only with actual instruction.”

Harry considered this. He remembered them talking in the common room, and was surprised to find that they’d actually done it. “That sounds really good.” 

Hermione sniffed. “No, it sounds really dangerous. You know what Umbridge is like. If she finds out—”

“What, are they practicing in corridors, empty classrooms?” Harry asked, thinking of the tournament. 

“That’s it exactly. They’re bound to be caught…we need to tell them to be more careful.”

Ron took another bite. “Eh, they asked me if we wanted to come.” 

Hermione bristled. “And you didn’t _tell_ me?”

“I forgot! There’s been a lot going on.” He glanced at Harry. 

“ _Ginny._ That’s right…she knew about Tom too. Don’t you remember? She’s been throwing hexes at him and following him around, you know. We couldn’t figure out why she was allowed to remember…”

Hermione sighed. “It’s obvious. You and Ginny are the only students who’ve got a close connection to You-Know-Who. Ginny was possessed by him, and you’ve been his target since you were a baby. Spells like that have to have a focus—for example, forget _everything you know about Voldemort._ ” She shuddered. “We can’t because he’s too much of our lives—it’d be impossible without wiping everyone’s memories. But if you say, _forget everything about Tom Riddle being a student fifty years ago,_ that’s a bit easier. It only affects the adults—our teachers—and Harry and Ginny. Ron and me…I don’t know.”

Harry thought about it. “Well, you did listen better than most people. Everyone else just…didn’t hear. But you two would listen, catch on, forget, and then pester me to change the subject. It was a lot more active…easier to see on you two.”

“There must have been times we remembered, then.” Hermione mused. “The locus of the spell was broken at points—that could be why it fell, you know. Too many of us remembered and broke the key.” 

“It’s not like you knew. It’s like you knew that I _thought_ he was Voldemort, and that’s what the spell told you was wrong. I think the spell breaking had more to do with Lockhart giving himself away.” 

“In any case,” Hermione insisted, “You need to stay away from Tom Riddle. He’s obviously not on our side—he left on his own. He wasn’t kidnapped.” 

Harry shook his head. “But why? Why leave _now?_ Nothing’s changed. It doesn’t make sense.” 

“Everything’s changed! Lockhart revealed himself, blew his cover. Tom _can’t_ stay, and he’s manipulating your feelings for him by masquerading his departure as a kidnapping. He’s never been your friend, Harry. He was always tricking you.”

Ron looked from Hermione to Harry with a dubious expression. He didn’t look convinced either way.

“I don’t believe it.” Harry said.

“Harry, you always believe the best of people. But you can’t keep doing that—” 

“No I don’t! You’re the one who believes in Snape.” Harry stuck out his chin. “He’s a bloody crow—”

“You don’t trust him because he obviously doesn’t like you, mate.”

“Professor Snape and you have been at Hogwarts together for five years now, and he hasn’t once hurt you. Not in Occlumency lessons, not in Quidditch, not in class. And Dumbledore trusts him.”

“Dumbledore trusts Tom!”

“Did he actually say that? Honestly, did he?” 

“I don’t know! Probably. He said Tom should get on with studying and not being left out, or being left in the dark. We can go ask him!” 

Ron let out a low whistle. “Harry, Voldemort is up to something. And I think you’re right not to trust Snape and all. I mean, he hadn’t got a reason to hurt you before, but now You-Know-Who’s back, and Snape was a Death Eater. We know that without a doubt. Personally, I think you’re right—they ought to chuck out all Death Eater kids. They’re like, sons and daughters of Death Eaters club.”

“If I wasn’t in the castle, Voldemort wouldn’t have reason to attack it. And I didn’t say they _should_ chuck them out. I said they were being unfair by only chucking out the one.” 

Hermione shook her head furiously. “That’s not what we’re talking about. I’m telling you to be careful. Don’t trust him without any reason—and you’ve _got_ reason to trust Professor Snape. You need to focus on what Dumbledore said. You’ve got to learn Occlumency.” 

“Right. And I’ve got to keep my head down, stay out of the way of the Ministry Woman, who’s going to be our teacher, you know. The Ministry will be in Hogwarts. It almost sounds like that’s as bad as Voldemort being here, you know.” 

Suddenly, Ron grinned at Harry. “You know, you’re…almost normal today. I mean, you are normal. Do you think it was a curse? Like Lockhart’s memory thing was twisting your reason or something? Maybe you’re better now.” 

“I dunno.” Harry replied. “I don’t feel any different…” 

Ron looked hopeful. He didn’t say anything else. 

“Let’s get some rest.” Hermione said.

“Right.” Harry wondered if he’d be letting them down if he couldn’t remember what exactly ‘normal’ was. Adrenaline and self-righteousness already seemed to be draining away. Without something to focus on, the whole world was different. And focusing on just part of it…maybe he should do that. Maybe then no one would notice. 

He lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Hermione and Ron were both trying to sleep—but their beds were much closer than his, and he could sometimes hear parts of whispered conversations. It all sounded strange. He drifted to sleep thinking of birds in flight and cold, calculating eyes.

* * *

“Mr. Potter,” Madam Pomfrey said, allowing Harry a moment to wake properly. “I’m sorry to wake you…but the Headmaster wishes to see you. He insists that it must be tonight.” 

Harry stared up into the dim light. He was still in the Hospital Wing, and Hermione and Ron were breathing soft and regular breathes. They were asleep. “What time is it?” He asked. 

“It’s near midnight.” Madam Pomfrey sounded offended. “You’ve been sleeping all day.” 

“A bit hungry, now that you mention it.” Harry quipped. 

She smiled softly. “Come with me. The Headmaster will get you something to eat, I’m sure.” 

The walk to Dumbledore’s tower was short and quiet. He spent a lot of it remembering the Third Task, thinking about losing Cedric. The crowd’s reaction was horrible, and the school reacted violently to his ‘lies.’ Harry remembered the dull ache, the feeling that he’d never be well again. Then all those newspaper articles about him being crazy and Dumbledore being wrong. Would the rest of the school realize that Tom Riddle had wormed his way into their memories? Would they realize how suspicious it was? With Lockhart gone and Umbridge coming, Harry thought that Ginny and Neville had the right idea. They needed someone to teach them properly. 

“How are you feeling, my boy?” Dumbledore asked quietly. All around them, the former headmasters watched and listened, almost still and silent. Fawkes perched behind Dumbledore, trilling quietly. Some of the nervousness left Harry as the phoenix crooned a quiet melody. 

Harry shrugged. “You said you put the memory spell up. Now Lockhart’s gone, and it’s broke. Tom said you just put the finishing touches on it—which of you is lying?” 

Fawkes looked him reproachfully. Harry missed the trilling. 

“I allowed the spell entrance. This is rather the same as putting it up. I’m afraid that act might have been what let the unfortunate creature come so close to Hogwarts grounds. My oversight has cost us much, but with the spell gone, we are again safe within these walls. I do not think it will be coming back.” 

Harry thought about this. “So you inviting Tom in was like an invitation to the Beast. Why? You invited Quirrell in especially, but he wasn’t free to call nasty creatures in. Except the Troll, I guess.” He thought about it some more. 

Dumbledore wasn’t looking at Harry again. He was looking somewhat above him. Harry remembered Dumbledore looking at the smoking object the night he’d had the dream about being the snake, and shivered. It was like Dumbledore didn’t trust him anymore. 

“I brought you here to ask if you’ve remembered anything. It is as I suspected; that is, Lockhart’s role. The Lockhart I knew as a student here, and the character presented in his books…I have been suspicious for some time now, and I thought I was, ah, finally able to convince him to take up a post at Hogwarts, but it seems that Voldemort got to him first. Voldemort, I believe, realized that Lockhart has some expertise with memory charms. This explains why you were unable to remember the ritual.”

“So you think Lockhart was there. You think he did something to my memory.” 

“Yes. And I believe you recovered some of that memory, if not all of it, yesterday. What do you remember?” 

“Lockhart was there, and we watched as Voldemort slit Tom’s throat. He should be dead. Tom took someone’s wand and stood up to Voldemort. He said something about…being absorbed by Voldemort, but…he wouldn’t. He didn’t want to.” Harry was quiet. “That’s it. I think.” 

Dumbledore sat quietly for a long while. “He was doing some reading before he disappeared—”

“He didn’t disappear. He was taken. Kidnapped.” Harry interrupted fiercely. 

“Before he was taken,” Dumbledore amended, “do you know what he was reading?” 

“Yeats. With me.” He supplied. 

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Ah. Very good. A lovely poet, to be sure, but I meant books of magic. Books he took from my office.”

“Oohh, I think Ginny said something about that.” Harry glanced at the ceiling. He couldn’t remember _what_ she said. “What was it—magic most foul or something. F-O-U-L, not F-O-W-L.” 

“He didn’t tell you?”

“What are horcruxes, professor?” 

Dumbledore pulled back, looking stricken. He seemed older in that instant, tired and wise. He was the unreachable, larger than life figure of the wizarding world, and not the brilliant but odd professor Harry usually thought of. “Oh my. I suppose this is what Horace felt like.”

“Who’s that?” Harry asked curiously. He noticed the portraits moving around busily, edging each other, and whispering into one another’s ears.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. “Ah, one of Tom Riddle’s old professors.” 

“Baby in the cauldron fell, –See the grief on Mother’s brow; Mother loved her darling well, –Darling’s quite hard-boiled by now.” He paused. (*2) “That’s a poem from Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes.” 

Dumbledore looked at Harry thoughtfully. “Yes…Voldemort was remade in a cauldron, wasn’t he?” 

“A sinister rebirth, almost. It was horrible.” Harry said, looking to the ground. “But you never said what a horcrux is.”

“It’s not the Horcrux that troubles me at the moment, my dear boy. It is the humanizing of one, and the possibility—no. I cannot say for certain.” Dumbledore looked tired and worn all over again, and he still wouldn’t meet Harry’s eye.

“Professor,” Harry began, but there was a loud knock at the door just before it was flung open. 

Fawkes gave a little trill of warning, and the portraits all turned to look at the door.

In spite of the late hour, there stood Umbridge, an oddly triumphant smile on her toad-like face. Close on her heels were the Minister of Magic in his bowler hat, Kingsley Shacklebolt and a man Harry didn’t recognize. Harry was so busy looking at the lot of them that he almost missed McGonagall swooping in behind them.

Umbridge stopped just by the desk, Fudge right beside her. Her smile was sickeningly sweet, and her bulbous eyes bulged even more than usual. She gave a little self-satisfied chortle, and glanced between Fudge and Dumbledore. 

Thoughts began to clash in Harry’s head. It was all he could do to focus on what they were saying.

She smiled the snapping jaws of a Bandersnatch, and her thin lips twisted. ‘ _That human creature is mine. His life is forfeit to me. His blood is my property... unless I have blood as the Law says…_ ’ (*3) But if he listened instead of looked, he could hear something entirely different. “Well! It seems Dumbledore is holding council of his own, Cornelius. And here we are, bringing the,” she clucked sadly, but her eyes twinkled, “accusations. The ministry knows that Lockhart is a madman, and that he has been attacking students. We have proof of your traitorous intent!” 

“And this boy!” Fudge flung out an arm to gesture at Harry. Harry thought his eyebrows might jump up to hide underneath the bowler hat. “What is he doing here? At this hour!” He glared at Harry, but somehow Harry thought he looked triumphant. Rather happy that he caught Harry there at all. 

“I’ve only just woke up. Sir.” Harry lifted his chin. “So the ministry knows about Lockhart, you say? You’ve got to know who did it to him, then. It’s _not_ Dumbledore.” 

Umbridge tisked, and went on in as if Harry hadn’t spoken. It seemed nothing could temper her happiness at having cornered Dumbledore. “Quiet, Mr. Potter! You know how I feel about your _lies._ Cornelius will be taking Dumbledore away now. It’s for the best.”

“Quite right!” Fudge nodded firmly. “Headmaster, you are to be brought to them for questioning immediately. The Wizengamot is in an outrage! It’s Lockhart, for Merlin’s sake. How could this public figure have been so utterly compromised? And while teaching in your school!”

“I think you know the answer to that already, Cornelius. I have told you—the signs are there. Voldemort is active again. I fear that Gilderoy’s mind was tampered with before term even began.” Dumbledore said solemnly. “We have arranged for him to be taken to St. Mungo’s, where he shall begin the recovery process…in time, perhaps we could get the story straight from the source.” 

“Preposterous! Must you try to turn everything into tales of the Dark Wizards in England? Really!” Fudge was about to choke on his tongue, he was so angry. “With accusations such as these, Dumbledore, I’m afraid we’ll have to take you to Azkaban to await trial before the Wizengamot. Modifying professors’ memories, driving them to insanity! I doubt very much that you shall manage to worm your way out of this one.”

“Ah. I thought we might run into that little snag.” (*4)

“Snag?” Said Fudge, his voice still vibrating with joy. “I see no snag.” (*ibid)

Harry looked between the two of them. “?” 

“I simply do not have the time to dally in Azkaban. There are things that must be seen to—things that I must find. I will not be going with you peaceably…you will have to try and take me by force.” His eyes twinkled merrily.

Umbridge and Fudge looked on incredulously. “Resisting arrest?” Umbridge said softly. 

The two Aurors tensed—shifting and shuffling beside the others. Harry thought he caught Kingsley’s eye—who seemed to be warning him not to do anything. This, however, was a concept that Harry usually ignored. 

“Professor!” He said. “They can’t take you to Azkaban. You’ve got nothing to do with Lockhart being mad. Or heartless.” 

“Rubbish. Dawlish, Shacklebolt! Apprehend this man!” 

Dumbledore raised himself up, tall and powerful in his circular office. There was a moment when he looked on past them all, and the castle seemed to wake. The room shuddered, clouds of dusk mushroomed out from nowhere, and things rattled in their places. The portraits themselves added to the confusion, shouting and rustling their frames as all the lights went out. 

Harry felt a wave of energy and coughed. Several people had fallen to the floor, and someone brushed against him, making to grab him. He quickly stepped aside and jumped over Dumbledore’s desk as it toppled over, removing himself from the mess of people over there. He just about ran into Dumbledore, who seemed to be among the few left standing. 

The dust cleared, revealing professor McGonagall, who looked somewhat reproachfully at Harry. Harry supposed it must have been her hand he’d shoved away. Dawlish, Shacklebolt, Fudge and Umbridge all lay on the floor, motionless. 

“Are you all right? Don’t worry about the others—they shalln’t remember being knocked unconscious. You must act as though no time has passed when they stir. Listen; we haven’t much time.” 

“Where will you go, Dumbledore?” Whispered Professor McGonagall. “To Grimmauld Place?” (*ibid) 

Harry watched Dumbledore closely. His blue eyes were bright behind the half-moon glasses, but he looked troubled. “Harry has shed light on a matter that I must look into. I will not be uprooted from Hogwarts only to lie low, Minerva…though you may not hear from me for some time. Take care of the students.” He turned to Harry. “You must study Occlumency. Do what Professor Snape tells you; it is vital that you close your mind.” 

Harry, who didn’t think Occlumency would help, did not reply. The other Auror, Dawlish, groaned from the floor as if in agreement. 

“Practice Occlumency, Harry! Remember, no time has passed. They must not know we had time to communicate.” Dumbledore turned to his phoenix, and disappeared in a flash of brilliant light. 

A moment later, Fudge tossed on the ground as Shaklebolt jumped to his feet. 

Harry dropped to the ground and coughed. He stared blankly for a minute, trying to look as though he hadn’t heard anything interesting. Tom was still kidnapped, and Dumbledore evicted. The Ministry would be at Hogwarts full time now. Harry thought that classes would suddenly become very interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*1) Silver brand could refer to 'his father's brand' in Childe Rowland, or the a number of wands, (like the wand in the Red Ettin), and silver is sometimes said to work against fairies. Also, iron has a similar effect. (Tho not always. There are interesting stories that talk about fairy smiths...)
> 
> (*2) Graham, Harry (as “Col. D. Streamer”). “Baby” in Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes. 1901  
> (*3) The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, Chapter 13. C.S. Lewis, 1950.  
> (*4) Order of the Phoenix, Chapter 27: you’ll notice some differences, but I liked those quotes…♥ It’s an amusing scene that I don’t think I’ve seen often. Anyway, should be fun to see how the school scene changes without the Headmaster. Can you predict the changes coming to Hogwarts? (Obviously, I’m making a lot of changes with the time line. (Remember, it’s just turned November, not April as in OotP…some other changes will be made too to keep it interesting.) 
> 
> So, questions? If you’re confused, please let me know which particular confused you; I’ll weave it into the story line if possible. 
> 
> Also, theories and observations are always welcome. So is a beta. But I still don’t have one of those…


	18. The Pensieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry must continue occlumency lessons. Snape attempts to reach out to Harry, but things never go as planned. ( **Still November.** )

**Chapter 18:** _The Pensieve_

A demented, multi-coloured owl (*1) was coming down the corridors. Harry stopped to watch, fascinated. Hermione, who had kept walking in the direction of an empty classroom for their usual practice, didn’t immediately notice. 

“Harry—what, oh.” Ron turned to see Luna. In a quieter voice, he whispered, “What is she wearing?”

“Good evening Harry. I was just thinking about you,” she said, her voice lilting and calm even behind her odd choice of spectacles. 

“Were you?” Hermione said icily, moving to stand next to Ron and Harry. “And why’s that? If you’re part of Neville and Ginny’s--”

“Oh, I went to a few meetings. But you know, they’re having trouble finding new places to practice… Umbridge has students watching for clubs, you know.” 

Harry looked at her with interest. “So, where did you practice before?” 

“Classrooms, mostly. Like you’d done during the Tournament.” She glanced at Hermione. “We could all really benefit from the extra class Hermione gave you last year, you know.” 

Harry wasn’t really listening. “You need a place to go…what if we asked Dobby? Hey, how do we get hold of the house elves, do you think?”

Ron looked uneasy. “Er, I saw him once…”

“Oh! Right. The moving tower of hats.” Harry nodded, remembering Dobby’s strange tastes in fashion. “It’s amazing he can move at all, isn’t it? Do you reckon we could ask him? I bet he knows of a place no one else can get to.”

“Might be worth asking.” Ron agreed. 

“You leave Dobby out of this!” Hermione said firmly. “He’ll get in trouble.”

“Not if no one finds out.” Harry disagreed. “And you know he’ll just come up with another stupid idea to ‘save me’ later if we don’t give him a task.” 

Luna watched the exchange. “Hmm. That would be good…if you could get us a place. But you know, I was going to say that I’ve discovered an inconsistency.” She said with wide eyes behind the specs. “There’s an extra boy in our class this year, and yet no one has noticed he’s missing. What’s happened to Tom Riddle?” 

Harry felt his eyebrows raise in surprise. He shifted on his feet, and asked, “They’re not even talking about him? They’re not mentioning Death Eaters or anything?” Harry felt his face go rigid and he stood a little straighter and felt the intensity in his voice. 

Hermione and Ron exchanged worried glances, but Luna continued looking blithely on.

“There’s no need to be so confrontational, Harry… I was just about to tell you. No, I don’t think they really know...But most people won’t tell me things outright. I usually overhear them when they’ve forgotten I’m there. They don’t mention him. It’s like talking about him is…hmm… I don’t know exactly. Saying his name gets people confused, see?” 

Hermione nodded slowly. “Well, that sort of makes sense. They’re not sure if they can trust their memories. Maybe all but the newer ones have gotten muddled? Ooh, but that should be fascinating. Do they have the modified memories as a sort of extra, second set? Or have they just evaporated like they weren’t there at all?”

Luna looked intrigued. “Modified memories?”

Harry frowned, and decided to move the conversation back to the part that mattered. “Tom has been kidnapped by the Beast that’s been waiting to be born. I think it’s a familiar of Voldemort’s, or maybe an apparition, or maybe a magical creature…I haven’t found any references in books.”

Hermione looked pained. “Harry, I don’t know that we should be—”  
“Really? No one said anything… What does it look like?” Luna interrupted.

Ron shot a look at Harry and then Luna. “It’s not something we should be messing around with, that’s what it looks like.” 

Harry ignored that and spoke in a rush, not stopping to breathe. “It looks dead; like a drowned thing with flat eyes. It’s like a Sphinx—part human, part beast. I think it’s got the body of a hippogriff. It flies invisibly. I think it said my name, but it might not have been speaking aloud. It recognizes me. That much I know.”

Hermione made a small noise of distress. “Not a hippogriff. It’s got gray wings, and a white body. It has both hands and talons, and it definitely has a purple tongue. That’s why you think it dead, isn’t it?” 

“Don’t forget the mouth. It’s awful, that thing is, but it can do wordless magic. I thought it wanted to eat us all.” Ron added.

Luna took off her spectacles. She looked at them distractedly, and it was the first time Harry recalled her doing anything of the sort. She was ordinarily so straight-forward. “It might be something from the Dark Arts, but it sounds something like a chimaera. Or a Fachin (*2). A Fachin is an ugly half-beast, half-man that comes out only on the night of a full-moon. It’s said to steal children and eat them. Was it the full moon, by chance?”

“I don’t think so.” Hermione sighed. “I’ve never even heard of a Fachin. And chimaeras are from Greece and have lion heads and goat’s bodies.”

“That’s just the kind of chimaera in Greece. There are others… any kind of hybrid animal made with magic is a chimaera, that’s what my father says.”

“That’s not what’s written in _Magical Beasts and Where to Find Them._ ” Hermione snapped.

“We have to stop it, whatever it is.” Harry said loudly, calling their attention back on him. “Let’s go check the library for this Fachin thing. If we can find it, we can find Tom; Dumbledore might not have thought of it, and I’m not sure he’s gone after Tom. We’ve got to--”

Hermione started to make an interesting face. Luna put her glasses back on, and Ron’s expression grew surly. Harry had two guesses of who was behind him. 

“If you’re quite finished.” Professor Snape drawled. Harry mentally added a tally to the number of times Snape had gotten in the way of a serious discussion. “Mr. Potter is late for his Remedial Potions. Come immediately, or there will be consequences.” 

Harry made a face. “How did you even know where to find me?” 

Snape made a derisive noise. “It’s not that difficult. You are entirely too predictable.” 

Harry was about to disagree when Ron and Hermione finished their whispered discussion, and Luna stuffed a bit of parchment in his pocket. He seemed to be doomed for the evening.

“Come. Your lessons await.” 

Snape didn’t seem in the mood to chat; he steered Harry out of the corridor and down toward the dungeons in record time. Harry scowled furiously the entire while, outraged that Snape had managed to interrupt the first good rescue plan he’d begun. 

“The High Inquisitor has, for all practical purposes, assumed the responsibilities of the headmaster. Dumbledore insisted that you… continue with your remedial lessons, just the same. Any other ridiculous chases through the castle…” here he looked at Harry with dire disapproval, “shall not be tolerated. I have been authorized by the High Inquisitor this very morning to use ‘any force necessary’ to keep you in line.” 

Snape’s tone was droll and ironic, Harry thought. Or perhaps just snide. And a touch bored. “So what you _mean_ to say is... bothering Umbridge will go against the Headmaster’s goals. Keep your head down and let the adults muck things up. Practice Occlumency.” Harry couldn’t keep his face straight. He scowled and glared. “You do realize Tom has been kidnapped? I can’t just sit here and—”

Snape, who had been walking closely behind Harry, whirled the boy about by his robes and held onto Harry’s shoulders quite firmly. “You can, and you will. You will do _nothing._ ”

“What does Voldemort even want with him?!”

“Do not say his name.” They reached Snape’s office, and the professor all but threw Harry through the doors. “Clear your mind.”

“here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide).” (*3) Harry quoted. “Tom Riddle isn’t Voldemort, and nobody knows Tom…whatever he is.” He decided not to mention the inexplicable ‘Horcrux.’ He trusted Snape to know more about that (undoubtedly dark) magic than he did, and Snape _never_ shared his secrets. So Harry wouldn’t either. 

“Which is exactly why you need to practice Occlumency.” Snape said decisively. 

“Here I go. Clearing my mind. Or not. I can’t tell.” Harry said waspishly.

“Stop wallowing about in your emotions; remove yourself from their immediacy. Focus on something _else._ The feeling of stone beneath your feet, the temperature of the air around you. The buzzing between your ears.”

“Do you have a problem with that? The buzzing, I mean.” 

Snape uncharacteristically ignored this jibe. He paced back toward the desk and loomed.

“Why do I even need to bother with emotions?” Harry asked, exasperated. 

“Your emotions hinder you. They light up your brain, as it were, drawing attention to the very _emotional_ facts that you wish to remain most private. Your emotions are a roadmap to your secrets.” Snape sneered.

Harry considered this. “I still don’t know how to stop feeling.” 

Snape very nearly rolled his eyes. Harry saw them twitch. “Do you listen at all? Or are you simply watching my mouth move?”

Watching Snape’s mouth now, Harry said nothing. 

“Relax. Focus on something else. A memory. Allow your mind to wander. Stop focusing on here and now.”

“I tried that last time.”

“Also, stop talking.” Snape snapped. They stood there in silence for what felt like an eternity. When Harry was about to explode, Snape spoke again. This time, his voice was soft—quieter than Harry had ever heard it. “And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky, has awakened in our hearts. . .a sadness that may not die. A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew-dabbled, the lily and rose; Ah, dream not of them.” (*4) Snape was looking, not at Harry, but at the fireplace and the flames dancing there. 

“….you’ve thought a lot about that, haven’t you?” He wasn’t sure what to make of it. 

Snape frowned most severely. Apparently that wasn’t what Harry was supposed to say. Harry tried again, but Snape interrupted. “ _Legilimens!_ ” 

It started with the feeling of being watched, and then the pressure increased, like being on the inside of a rubber ball being squeezed. Then all at once the pressure lifted, and Harry saw fragments of his own memories sift through his mind’s eye. _A glimpse of Tom, seen from between two books on a bookcase, Hermione’s eyes, Ron scowling over a parchment, and then—_

 _The pavement and cement in a strange black hole, mist and darkness overwhelming the scene. Dudley’s face came into focus,_ and Harry found himself clutching at that memory, trying to place it. The Dementor attack seemed so long ago, from almost another time… the time in-between being dead after the tournament and finding himself at Hogwarts with something to focus on. The riddle that was Tom…

_A flash. Tom’s hand in Harry’s, cool and firm. Kissing Tom, brief and sweet but also demanding. It could terrify a person, Tom’s relentlessness, and there was that odd feeling._

_Memories of the beast, white and bloated, its horrible hands grasping Tom—_

_Lockhart spewing words about fairy tale hearts—_

_Snape glowering at Harry, yelling Legilimens again._ Was that a memory, or the present? 

“Self-centered fool!” Snape was saying, hissing through clenched teeth. This was happening now, probably, but Harry wasn’t sure if Snape was talking to Harry, or to himself. “Do not react to what you see. At this stage, all you can do is remain calm. Cast me out only by doing nothing! Feign indifference to the memories; then, you will have the strength to push me away.” 

Harry pushed all right. He glared straight into the Professor’s glinting eyes and _pushed_. The pressure receded, becoming a vacuum that pulled the two of them closer. He watched, fascinated and alarmed at once. 

_A tall man stood menacingly over a much frailer woman. She was sallow-skinned and dark of eye. Harry watched from somewhere below them, and he knew instinctively that the man was dangerous. Someone to be feared._

_Then there was a flash of golden sunlight on a grassy green field. A flash of red hair and a smiling, kind face._

Harry felt that his mind was slammed against a very hard surface. Dizzy, winded, and thinking too fast to remember any of what Snape had recommended, he cast defensive spell after spell. 

Snape was closer than before. He took one menacing step after another, practically glowing with dislike. His own shield spells protected him now, and he held out his wand and Harry knew. Snape would try to disarm him. Or possibly banish his wand altogether.

And then there was a knock, and the door swung open. “Sir!” An excited voice proclaimed. It was Draco Malfoy. “Sir, it’s the High Inquisitor. She needs you to help; there’s going to be an Inquisitorial Squad of students, and she needs names. She wants you to give her recommendations. She’s in her office, and asks you come immediately.” Finally, his eyes flickered to Harry, and Draco gave his best smirk. “What are you doing here, Potter?”

“Remedial Potions.” Professor Snape sneered. “Stay here, and do not touch. Anything.” 

Draco looked at Harry with a smirk. “Remedial potions? Hah. I knew you were bad but…you’re the only one in our year who needs them, aren’t you?” He choked back a laugh, but didn’t stick around to gloat. Snape was already halfway down the corridor, and Malfoy was…probably expecting to be promoted.

Harry felt both relieved (to have his wand, and no Snape), and annoyed (that Snape blamed him. Again). Eyes smarting from the disorienting measures of Legilimency, he closed off the world for a while. 

When he opened his eyes, he saw the Pensieve. It was sitting there, almost thoughtfully. Who left a basin full of memories unguarded anyway? Harry imagined the silvery smoke steaming out of the water like so much mist. Snape had been trying to communicate, that much he was sure of. True, he’d tried to attack right after, but… Harry shook those thoughts off. More importantly, he wanted to know what Snape thought was his alone. Snape could see everything—the Dementors, Tom going missing. Even bits of the Graveyard, probably, the most horrific and personal memories he owned. 

He took a step forward. He wouldn’t be sucked in, no. He’d do what Dumbledore did; touch the surface and watch the reflection. It wouldn’t be any worse than what Snape did to him.

The Pensive glowed softly. He meant to touch his wand to it, but just as before, he felt his head submerge into the liquid. The memory magic took him. 

*-*-*  
The girl with red hair was laughing, her back to a tree and her lap full of books. When she looked up, her green eyes sparkled. “Is that all you’re going to do, Sev?” 

Harry stepped closer, unable to believe it. It was summertime; the sky was clear and the sunshine bright—this wasn’t Hogwarts, it was someone’s garden, or maybe a park. Everything was too tame, too mundane for Hogwarts. And here was a much younger Snape, talking with his mother. Why? _How?_

“And what would you have me do?” Snape demanded.

“Come off it,” Lily replied, and exasperation crept into her voice. “You’re not going to tell me about your grand experiments? After all that?” 

Snape lifted his nose. “You wouldn’t understand. It is all very theoretical, very high-end magic. We’ve not even begun to cover it at school, so with your limited knowledge—”

Lily got to her feet fast, and the books tumbled down. “My limited knowledge? Excuse me, but who was it that saved your arse in Charms last year? Who was it that outlined the theoretical perimeters in terms that you and your lofty, high-end magic couldn’t handle?” 

Snape flushed. On his sallow skin, it was hardly pretty. “I shouldn’t talk about them with you. You wouldn’t understand.” 

“So explain it to me!” She hissed. Then she stopped, the tension falling from her jaw as her eyes widened. She stared at him for a moment. “This isn’t an experiment, is it? It’s the Dark Arts—you’re. Oh, I knew it. I heard rumors…these people! They’re bad news aren’t they? Severus, I hardly see you anymore. You’ve changed, and not for the better.”

Snape’s nostrils flared, just as they did in class when Harry said something. He drew himself up, but without his adult’s height, he looked like a weedy thing. “It’s not I who has changed. You’re always with those three, laughing when they torment the rest of the school!” 

“I’m not laughing! Or do you remember who saved you last time? They were being idiots! You know I don’t like it when they torment you.” Lily was nearly nose-to-nose with him, and she was so angry. Harry’d never seen that side of her in the photos that remained, not once. “Is that what you think? Have you looked away from your precious Dark Arts once since winter? They’re not my friends. I’m not laughing at their stupid pranks. I’ve been named a Prefect, Severus Snape, and I fully intend to—”

“A Prefect.” Snape said softly, and jealousy or something like it flew across his face. “Congratulations, Ms. Evans.”

“Sev, promise me. Please. You know how dangerous the Dark Arts are; I don’t want you to lose yourself in them. Put your brilliance into something bigger—something that can help people.” There was no room for argument in her tone. 

“…I will.” Snape replied, but Harry knew it to be a lie. Or perhaps his thoughts of ‘something bigger,’ and Lily’s just didn’t match up.  
*-*-*

The memory closed abruptly, shutting the doors on Lily and Snape’s summer. The next memory was already clamoring for attention. 

Hogwarts, the Great Hall. Instead of the long tables and candles, though, it was filled with rows and rows of individual desks. Professors stalked in between the rows, and students scribbled furiously over reams of parchment. It was exams. And there, Harry saw, a boy who looked very like—

“Dad,” Harry whispered, and found himself standing just before his father, the same age as Harry… And there, was Lupin… and farther up, Sirius Black before Azkaban stole his youth. Harry turned in a circle, looking for more familiar faces. There was Peter the traitor, and there was Snape, bent so far over his test that his hair brushed the paper. And there was his mother.

Harry looked at his father once more, looking at the way he frowned in concentration, the way his hand swept back his hair. And his mother… back straight and head bent. Harry went farther up to see her expression, to see her face, and not the back of her desk. 

Harry walked through the rows of people, feeling like he was in a cemetery walking between ghosts. He stood in front of his mother just as time was called. She looked startled for a moment, panicked, but then she put her quill down and schooled her expression. Harry didn’t know what she was worried about; her parchment was filled with neat handwriting. She’d written a lot. Then the parchments and charmed quills collected themselves, leaving the question sheets on the desks. 

Harry looked past her and saw Snape watching his mother too. Then he looked away, grabbed the question sheet and walked toward the doors. Harry looked away to see a funny expression on his father’s face, something too complicated for a single name. Relief. Exasperation. And then Sirius Black was loping back, gathering Lupin, James, and Wormtail to him. He was loudly exclaiming over the questions, not a trace of worry in his voice. 

Then in front of him, Lily started to speak. She exchanged polite expressions of relief and bemoaned the difficulty of the questions with her neighbor. Lily glanced over at James and the others. 

Harry stood frozen, uncertain of who he should follow. His mother, or his father? But then the scene changed—he didn’t really have a choice. These were Snape’s memories; he would go where Snape went. 

Outside, it was a beautiful day. Snape was still looking over the questions, oblivious to the clear blue sky so like the one where he and Lily had argued. Uninterested, Harry tried to edge back, to go focus on something else and explore the limits of the pensive magic. It wasn’t really what Snape remembered, he thought he remembered Hermione saying that; pensive magic was more omniscient…a piece of reality stuffed in a bottle.

He wandered nearer to his father and his friends. They were still chatting amicably, but Harry couldn’t focus on the words. He saw James purposefully mess his own hair (though he didn’t need to, Harry could have told him), and pull a tiny, half-broken snitch from nowhere. Now Harry was intrigued. He watched the little thing fly and twirl, speed and dip, but again and again, James caught the speeding little ball. Beside him, Wormtail made little surprised and impressed noises. 

Sirius, “Ah, that’s enough James. You’d better stop before Wormtail wets himself.” 

Lupin was leaning back, mind elsewhere after the exams had ended. He didn’t seem to notice where Sirius was looking, or what James said back to him. Harry wondered about that, but was too preoccupied by Wormtail to follow the conversation. 

Wormtail flushed deeply and then straightened. “Look there. It’s Snivellus.” And his watery blue eyes gleamed. He nudged James.

“Ah, and what’s he so happy about? He’s still looking over that? You’d think three hours was long enough. Did you see him in hall? His nose was practically pressed against the parchment. Wouldn’t be surprised if it left a smudge.”

“I’d hate to be the one marking _that._ ” Sirius chimed in. He was on his feet in an instant, striding over toward Snape. “All right, Snivellus?” 

Snape reacted so fast it was as though he was expecting attack. He reached for his wand.

Harry’s mind reeled in shock. His dad and Sirius—he really did strut. Pained and shocked, he recounted how vain his father looked, showing off with the snitch and messing with his hair. And now, what was he going to do to Snape? He didn’t want to know. Was his father a bully? Snape had said as much, but Harry never believed him. 

And then Snape was dangling upside down, his robes flung up and his skinny legs revealed. Not to mention a pair of dingy underwear. While James and Sirius taunted him, Harry saw Lily storm up from farther down by the lake. She was red in the face, and near bursting. Evidentially, James saw her too. He whirled around, and his hand jumped to his hair again. Behind him, Snape fell to the ground. 

“All right, Evans?” James called.

“You think that’s funny? You think that’s a real laugh, do you?” She shouted across the way. “What have you done to him?” 

“Look, Snivellus. Your lady in shining armor is here to save you again.” Sirius’s eyebrows shot into his hair. He was trying to keep Snape’s wand out of arm’s reach, but it was a long shot. 

“Stop it!” Lily shouted again.

“I don’t need a filthy little mudblood like her to save me.” Snape’s fingers closed on his wand and he shot a hex straight at James, leaving a gash on his cheek. 

Lily was white. Her normally expressive face was frozen. She shook her head. “Fine. If that’s what you think…I won’t bother in the future.” 

“Lily—” Snape began to say—

*-*-*

And Harry was pulled bodily from the Pensive. A hand closed tight around both Harry’s shoulders and whirled him around. Harry felt a thrill of terror as he saw the adult Severus Snape glaring down at him. 

“Having fun?” Snape asked murderously. One arm still clenched at Harry’s shoulders with a vice-like grip.

“N-no.” Harry said. Where was his wand? No, probably not a good idea. Harry couldn’t look away from Snape’s face, so transformed with anger. He looked like he’d lose control any instant now. All of the anger and hate Harry’d ever seen in Snape’s dark eyes seemed to fill the professor with homicidal rage. He was scarier than his Uncle Vernon ever was, who only looked vaguely funny when he turned maroon and yelled a bit. 

“Thought you’d get some tips from your dear old dad, did you? You’re _just_ like him. You think none of these rules apply to you, do you?” he shook Harry then, hard enough to make his glasses slip down his nose. 

“No!” Harry replied. “I didn’t!” 

“You will tell _no one_ what you saw.” Snape gritted out.

“Stop _touching me._ I won’t bow to you—I’ll _never_ —” 

Harry heard the voice again. ‘ _And here he is. The boy you thought to be my downfall…blooded and bound. But I will be generous. I will give you your wand and we will have a dance…a duel to the death, Harry Potter. But first? Bow._ ’ 

His teeth began to chatter. “Severus Snape.” He realized. Not Voldemort at all. But someone’s hands were still on him, and he looked at Harry with no trace of kindness. Harry wavered on his feet. “I didn’t _mean_ — I didn’t think—you were…”

“Liar!” Snape hissed. 

“You want the Death Eaters to _watch_ while you Crucio me? You call this a duel?” Harry snapped back, head spinning. _The mist surrounded them like so much water, and Harry could almost forget the strange figure of the boy, cowled in stolen robes and_ watching _from the tree line. He wouldn’t come._

Before him, a vision of Severus Snape glowered and leaned forward. He was determined not to be distracted. “You looked into the Pensieve with every intention to see what I put there!” 

“How many people have to die?” Harry demanded. _Falling. The strange boy was falling out of Voldemort’s grip, and he—no, he was behind the trees. No, on the altar. Gone. Not here at all._ Harry shook his head, mind racing back, trying to find the truth. He latched onto what Snape had just said. “I didn’t know it’d be from when you were fifteen!” Harry shot back angrily, and the cold of the graveyard left him a bit. “I thought it’d be about Voldemort.”

“Mr Potter. Where are you now?” Snape asked, his hands (finally) releasing him. Snape’s black eyes were dull. 

“The graveyard.” Harry muttered, shook his head. “I’ve never left.” 

“Get out.” Snape whispered. “I do not want to see you in this office ever again—do not speak of what you saw.” At Harry’s expression, he paused. “In the _pensive_ you idiot!”

Harry stubbornly stayed where he was. Visions of Cedric’s body, his mother and father’s spirits, Voldemort’s hate-filled eyes, Wormtail and the knife. James pushing his hair back. Sirius laughing. And his mother, condemning his father as an arrogant bully. Snape’s humiliation stung; it was hard to reconcile the pristine images he’d made of his parents against the memories Snape had. Everything Harry had constructed was…a lie? Or not. 

“I don’t understand.” Harry found himself saying. “But…James…he…that thing with his hair.”

Snape did not reply. He stared at Harry, cold anger washing over him once more. 

“You weren’t at the graveyard.” Harry added. “I’m…not at the graveyard.” He hazarded.

“I was not. You _are_ not.” Snape’s lip curled. “Tell me, Mr Potter. Are you having difficulties discerning reality from memory?”

Harry shook his head mutinously. Then he stopped, reached out to touch a shelf of potions ingredients. “I’m not crazy.” He spat out.

“Aren’t you?” Snape replied, just as venomously. “If I find out, Mr. Potter, that this is an elaborate rouse for you to take advantage of people’s pity for the mentally unbalanced…then I will personally see you committed to an institution so that you might _learn_ what it means to be socially stigmatized and deemed somehow _less capable_ than your fellows, which I am sure you are, but that is beside the point!”

Harry laughed bitterly. “So now you think I’m faking? I don’t believe this!” Harry thrust out his hand at Snape, the scar white against his hand. “Do you know how often I’ve had detention with Umbridge? I’ve lost count. But even with _her_ here, you are the worst teacher at Hogwarts. And Lockhart was insane, but you’ve got him beat. Vicious, blood-thirsty, vindictive—always trying to catch us up. You _like_ seeing us fail. You’re not a teacher, you’re a bully!”

Snape took three steps forward, looming over Harry. “Get out of my sight before I do something we both regret. Get out!”

“My mum was right not to stay by you. You’re evil,” Harry spat. 

Snape pushed Harry through the door and Harry landed hard on the cobles. As Harry scrabbled for purchase there, Snape threw a glass bottle after him. “Get out! You understand _nothing._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*1) Canon; The Half-Blood-Prince, ch. 7. Surprisingly apt, isn’t it?  
> (*2) Fachan is from Irish fairy-tales. “the thing that was his body, one eye in the forehead of his black-faced countenance, and one bare, hard very hairy hand coming out of his chest, and one veiny, thick-soled leg supporting him in a close, firm, dark blue mantle of twisted hard thick feathers, protecting his body. . .” (A Dictionary of Fairies, Katharine Briggs, 1976) p. 129-30. JKR fashion, I’m changing a bit of the details. This fanfic Fachan has feathers and is a combination-like creature.  
> (*3) [i carry your heart with me(i carry it in], by ee cummings, 1952  
> (*4) W.B. Yeats, 'The White Birds', 1921. The ellipses (. . .) are actually cutting out ‘my beloved,’ but I thought it’d be extremely out of character for Snape to include it. So what he leaves out is quite telling. :D Read the poem for more interesting tidbits.
> 
> …Tom is sad (or indignant. Hard to tell.) He wants more screen-time, but all the other characters keep clamoring for attention…
> 
> …anyway, tbc. Thoughts? I’d really love to hear what you think—it’ll help buoy me through the rest of first term. :)


	19. Christmas at St. Mungos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has another vision. The Weasleys, Harry and Hermione sneak out from Umbridge’s control to spend the holidays in the closed ward…

**Chapter 19:** _Christmas at St. Mungos_

Harry went through the school routine without much interest. November crept into December, and there was no sign of Tom. The secret passageways were watched by the Weasley twins (trying to keep him in?) and Snape stalked the halls at odd hours of the night. He was stuck inside, and unable to attempt rescue. The only thing that kept him from breaking some rule seriously enough to get purposefully expelled was…a feeling. And the dreams. 

He dreamt of Tom, sometimes. Talking in a hushed voice to shadowy people. Smiling viciously and somehow far, far out of reach. It was always twilight there. Harry didn’t know where to look. He had, at one point, decided to steal a Thestral…but the beast wouldn’t listen to him without being bribed with meat, and anyway, Hagrid had caught him at it. 

“ _I’ll come back._ ” Sometimes, Tom would speak to him.

And sometimes Harry would dream of long corridors, always ending with that door. Unopenable, it was as attractive as a siren’s call.

So Harry sat, cold and miserable one December afternoon, glumly anticipating the amount of homework they’d soon have over winter break. Ron and Hermione were tucked into a pair of cushy chairs as he stared out the window, arguing again. They _had_ been cheerful enough a few minutes ago… 

“He hasn’t said anything to me in days, Ron. Please, tell me honestly. Has he spoken to you at all?” She had to be talking about him. But he couldn’t get the energy to glare at her properly. 

“Er.” Ron fidgeted. “You don’t think…he thinks…again, do you?” 

“What?” 

“Err. You know. After the tournament, he thought he was…” Ron shot a nervous glance at Harry before whispering somewhat loudly, “…dead.” 

Harry managed to stare back. 

Ron screwed up his face and wrinkled his nose at Hermione. He seemed to be mouthing, ‘he’s listening!’ or maybe ‘I knew it!’ 

Hermione hummed. “I’ve been reading up on this. I couldn’t get a lot of the books that are specific, but we can’t really do anything ourselves; not without him wanting to. What he really needs is someone he trusts. A therapist too, I think. It’d be best if he trusts the therapist, though…Harry, you need to ask Snape for lessons again.”

“And learn to trust each other?” Ron was incredulous. “Fat chance of that happening! They hate each other.” 

Harry turned back to the window. That was an easily ignored suggestion. Snape wouldn’t take him back if he begged, which he wouldn’t do. 

“It’s been almost two months, Harry. Can’t you swallow your pride? You should make up before Christmas!” 

Harry had the undeniable urge to feign sleep then and there. He did so, but he was tired recently, between midnight visions (that ended usually with an intense sense of frustration and homicidal rage…), he never felt rested. Occlumency’s invisible walks weren’t the answer either; Snape hardly slept, it seemed, and was uncannily aware of when Harry felt like exploring the castle’s exists. Pushed to exhaustion, Harry could drop off at almost any time of day. 

“ _It is a lovely cup._ ” Tom said. “ _A better shape now than before, for certain._ ” He was dreaming. He had to be. There was Tom, making such a careful and polite comment that Harry knew he was up to something. He was reminded of the Cowled figure he dreamed before, but these people seemed…different. 

“ _It is, isn’t it? It was in my possession once before, a thousand years ago or more. Those were the days…_ ” And then Harry felt pushed away, and his dreams were his own again. 

_There was Umbridge, bouncing like a balloon through Hogwarts halls, simpering and laughing with a cruel smile. Barely ahead of her was a crowd of students. Neville and Ginny were most clear; they would run through walls and into hidden rooms Dobby showed them, and Umbridge would trail behind them, giving detentions and new laws which each step._

_The dream changed again, like so much melting snow. He was back in the corridor; it was dark and cold enough to bite against his belly. Slowly, slowly, he made his way down. There was the door, but no—there was a man. Harry could not risk being seen. Besides, the warmth drew him closer and closer. All he had to do was open his jaws and snap—_

_The man’s wand was alight. And in that instant, Harry knew he’d been seen. A cry of warning was on his lips. Harry struck to silence the man forever, tasting sweet blood and_

“Wake up, please!” Hermione was shaking him. It was dark; the common room was nearly deserted except for the three of them. “You said you’d stopped dreaming. Harry, your _lessons._ You were shaking. Screaming.” Hermione trembled as she said it, and he could see the worry in her eyes.

“Mr. Weasley.” Harry mumbled. His voice hurt. “He’s hurt badly. We need to tell Dumbledore— He’s bleeding. He could be dying—we need to—” He froze. 

“Dumbledore’s not here. The only one in the order is Snape!” Ron protested. “What do you mean, my dad? Bleeding?” 

Harry sat up. “The order, that’s it! We’ll have to tell Sirius. He’ll—he can—the mirror.” He scrambled to his feet, pounding up the stairs and tearing through the dormitory door before opening his trunk. He had it. He had it. The mirror was cold in his hands, burning his fingers and reminding him of the cold floor against his stomach—

While Harry rummaged through his trunk, disregarding the other sleeping students, Ron whispered, “You lot go back to sleep. We’re getting Professor McGonagall. You got it?” At Harry’s nod, Ron grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back through the door and down the stairs. 

Harry’s teeth began to chatter. “Sirius.” He said quietly, his breath close enough to fog the mirror surface. “It’s Mr. Weasley. He’s been hurt. He’s bleeding. I think it was a snake. Sirius, Mr. Weasley needs help—”

Sirius’s groan was the first thing that came through. “Harry, wait. Slow down. I’ve only just woken. Say it again.”

“Mr. Weasley’s hurt. He’s bleeding. He needs help. I saw it—I saw—”

Sirius swore on the other end. “It’s his turn, isn’t it?” 

“Enough, Sirius Black. Don’t tell them anything more!” McGonagall was standing in the portrait hole. Hermione climbed in behind her, shooting Ron a worried look. “But if you could relay the message—to Kingsley, perhaps? Umbridge has the Fireplaces watched; even mine.” 

“I can do better than that.” Sirius said. “Phineas Nigellus has a portrait here—and guess who he knows? Don’t worry, Harry. We’ve got it covered. We’ll see if it’s happened, and I’ll fire-call Kingsley for good measure. Rest up. I’ll call you back when it’s settled.” 

McGonagall took the mirror from Harry. “I’ll accept any return calls, thank you. Harry, you and the Weasleys should wait in…the hospital wing. I’ll escort you there myself. On second thought…the Weasleys. Ron, have them wait with you in the common room. We have to get word before you can be officially informed, of course, so be discreet. Miss Granger, take Harry.” 

“But I want to wait with Ron and everyone!” Harry protested, angry now. “Why do I have to go? Why only me?” 

“Because your scar is bleeding, and you look distressed. Get a calming draught, and if Madam Pomfrey sees fit, she shall send you back.” 

Hermione lead him through the hall and brought him to and from the Hospital Wing. Harry wouldn’t stay there. Nothing she said would make him. 

“—I know you feel that you and your friends can handle it,” Madam Pomfrey was saying at some point, “but there is a time and a place to consult adults in your lives! We do have a certain amount of experience, and to an extent, expertise.” She went on at length, but Harry wasn’t listening.

“When we’re ready.” Hermione was saying. “You know, it’s useless if the ‘help’ comes from the outside. We have to be willing to _listen_ and accept that something’s changed. I’ve read all about it, Madam Pomfrey—”

Whatever the mediwitch had to say to that, it wasn’t enough. Harry swept out of the room as soon as he could, and they were among the Weasleys within moments. Time was a strange, disjointed thing. They waited in tense silence in the Gryffindor common room where someone had made tea. Harry didn’t remember getting a cup, but there he held it.

Nearly an hour after Harry’s dream, McGonagall came back. “We’ve received word that your father is in St. Mungo’s. As there’s only a few days left in term, the High Inquisitor will allow immediate family members to go to the hospital to wait.” She ignored Harry and Hermione’s protests. “All of you, proceed to the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey has arranged for the Floo. Your homework materials will be sent along after.”

The Weasleys followed McGonagall woodenly. Harry and Hermione exchanged glances, and then joined the queue. Oddly enough, neither McGonagall nor Pomfrey seemed to notice them—or at least, acknowledge them. 

So it was that Harry found himself Flooed to St Mungo’s hospital. All the Weasleys sat in a row, too nervous and afraid for sleep. Mrs. Weasley must have been where the healers were, with Mr. Weasley. But at last, around dawn, they got the news. 

“The family can come and see Mister Arthur Weasley now. Please, just this way. No, no, I’m afraid the room’s, ah, too small. Non-family, please umm, come back later.” Her eyes drifted to Harry’s scar. “He’ll be moved to a bigger room when he’s stabilized, with some other patients, that is, in a few hours.” 

Hermione and Harry sat back down, and Ron gave them both a weak smile as he left. Hermione turned to Harry. “I’ll get us some tea. There’s got to be someplace for breakfast, also. Do you…want to look for that? And come back here.” She said meaningfully. “Soon.” 

Harry nodded. He stood up to go.

But Mrs. Weasley intercepted them before they even got down the hall, snuck them in to see Arthur sleeping, and then out again to Apparate them away to Grimmauld Place. “You should rest. Wait. Nothing is happening at the hospital.” She assured them. It happened so fast that Harry wasn’t sure that it had really happened at all. All thoughts of breakfast had evaporated. 

“Harry! Hermione! It was some bad news you gave us last night, but good thinking.” Sirius slapped Harry on the back, smiling grimly. “I got the news too; they’re saying he’ll be fine. We got our people there just in time.” 

Hermione smiled thinly. “We’ve already finished classes…except for History and Charms, but Flitwick said we were doing holiday-related things. It’s a shame to miss, but really, we’re better off here. I’m sure there’s things we can do for the Weasleys. You’ll sort it out, won’t you?” 

Sirius nodded, surprised. “Er, yeah. I’ll, uh, remind McGonagall. The Inquisitor’s still roaming the halls, you think? You won’t get too many detentions, I hope.” 

Harry glanced at his hand and then shoved it in his robe pockets. “You’re not sending us back because of that, are you?”

“No. No, we aren’t. Umbitch would have to be a real troll to do anything if she noticed, and none of the staff plans on mentioning it. So how’s she to know?” 

When Sirius had left to make them breakfast, Hermione hissed, “That is a really sexist thing to say!” She said, but Harry noticed she’d told him and not Sirius. “I mean, she’s horrible and a troll of a person, but _honestly._ ” 

Harry’s lips quirked. “Nah, I think Umbitch is pretty easy to remember, actually…yeah. I think it’s going to stick.” 

Hermione threw up her hands and glared. “You wouldn’t.”

“Don’t you _dare_ insult my guests! OUT, you filthy creature!” Sirius roared from the kitchen.

Hermione and Harry exchanged awkward glances. 

Some moments later, Sirius called in a more reasonable tone, “Harry? Hermione? Aren’t you hungry?” 

Breakfast was a quiet affair; Sirius kept trying to smile at the two of them, but then stopped awkwardly as he looked at their worried expressions. Eventually, he let out a big sigh and shoved his hands under the table. Harry suspected he was drumming his fingers. 

“How’s uh, how’s school?” 

Hermione and Harry looked at each other. 

“Er.” Sirius said. “They’ll be taking you back to St. Mungo’s tomorrow, I think. Maybe the next day. You can help us get the bedrooms back in order after we eat. What do you say? It’ll take some work, but I reckon it’ll be worth it.” 

The days passed quickly. As Sirius leapt between enthusiastically cleaning, yelling for his Vanished-From-Sight House Elf, and brooding over Mr. Weasley’s predicament, Harry frequently found himself on the outside looking in on the Weasleys when they weren’t at the hospital. The Weasley’s grief somehow seemed less shallow, and it bound them tighter together even as Hermione and Harry tried to help. Hermione seemed to get it instinctively, but Harry and Sirius would just exchange glances and breathe frustrated sighs of their own. 

Sirius was busy fighting his own battles, it seemed. It wasn’t right, to trap him here, where he could only throw himself against mundane chores with reckless energy. It was like pinning a big dog up inside a small place…which was exactly what was happening, Harry supposed. As soon as he’d seen Mr. Weasley, Harry resolved, he and Sirius would have to sneak out and play in the park. 

“I’m going to go ski with my family as soon as I’ve seen Mr. Weasley,” Hermione announced brightly. “I’ll send you all post…I really should prioritize my parents more, don’t you think? There’s also some things I need to read in the library.”

“The library?” Ron was incredulous. “The _Muggle_ Library?”

“Yes, Ronald. The library. Muggles have more books than you could possibly imagine—” Harry tuned out the rest of that conversation.

So winter vacation had officially started when they found themselves back in St. Mungo’s.

* * *

o0o0o0o0o0o

“Arthur Weasley? He’s on the first floor, second door on the right, Dai Llewellyn ward. His wife—your mother?—is with him now.” 

Fred gave Harry, Ron and Hermione a look. “Creature induced injury, ey? Sounds about right.” Fred lead the way, and soon Harry noticed the plaque on the door: 

“DANGEROUS. DAI LLEWELLYN WARD: SERIOUS BITES.” Underneath this was a card in a brass holder, on which was written, _Healer in Charge: Hippocrates Smethwyck, Trainee Healer: Augusts Pye._ (*1) They entered without comment, quickly finding the right place.

“Harry, twice savior of our family.” Mr. Weasley said weakly from the bed. He looked cheerful enough, though. “First Ginny, and now me. I don’t know where I’d be without your quick thinking.”

Mrs. Weasley beamed up at Harry through her tears. She seemed to be crying a lot, recently. “We wanted to thank you earlier,” she began. 

“You have.” Harry reminded her. “Lots. I’m just glad you’re ok.” His eyes wandered around the rest of the room. There were two other beds, but the curtains were drawn around both of them. He thought about moving closer, to take Mr. Weasley’s hand or to express how…happy he was he wasn’t dead, and how much he hated having to watch, to feel being the snake that had bitten him. Harry was still uncertain about whether or not he was possessed, but…where else could he go? What else could he do? Leaving Hogwarts and the Order’s borders was, if anything, easier for the Death Eaters to get at him, to use him. Tom had shown that… 

Mr. Weasley launched into a story about the hospital procedures and his cranky elderly roommate, confiding quietly about the other patient being a newly bitten werewolf, and spinning off in a direction about something else. Harry listened and nodded in all the right places, but refrained from saying much. He might say the wrong thing. He tuned in again when Mrs. Weasley started shouting about surgery. Something about stitches, by the sound of it.

“I, uh, think I’ll get some tea…” Harry hedged, and ducked out before anyone could reply.

Ron and Hermione were quick to follow suit. Out of sheer relief, they all started laughing as soon as they rounded a corner. It wasn’t really funny; it was just… 

“That’s dad for you.” Ron said breathlessly. “Stitches! I ask you…” 

Hermione replied, “I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of that argument.” She agreed. “But the stiches might work if not for the venom.” 

Harry moved his hands vaguely, “And the magic, I expect. It’s a magical snake.” 

They walked along the corridor through a set of double doors and found a rickety staircase. They wandered up it, enduring the comments, diagnoses and suggested remedies that the ancient Healers recommended from the lofty vantage point of their portraits. 

“What floor is this?” Ron asked, particularly flustered for some reason.

“The fifth.” Said Hermione. 

“Nah, the fourth. One more.” Said Harry. But he stopped at the exit to the fourth floor; there was a small window set into the double door. There was someone there. It was Lockhart. 

“Blimey!” Ron said loudly. 

“He might know something.” Harry replied, and immediately reached for the handle.

“We shouldn’t be here.” Hermione hissed. “Don’t you know how much trouble we’ll be in—”

“Morning,” Harry said brightly to the Witch inside. “Can we talk to Professor Lockhart?” 

“Oh, how sweet. We won’t let any of his fans in, but students! How nice of you to see your old professor. He really is quite kind, the poor dear, but very confused.” 

“Er.” Ron said, trying to pull Harry back through the door as subtly as possible. 

Hermione looked guiltily from the expectantly smiling Healer to her two friends. Then she sighed and pushed both boys further into the room. “Yes, we’re fifth year students. Professor Lockhart was, um, very kind, yes. We, that is, I enjoyed his lessons very much, and we were very, uh, sorry…” 

“Just this way then. We need to get him back to his room, the poor dear. Lockhart! This way.”

Harry was at once baffled and annoyed at the tones she was using. Lockhart wasn’t a child, was he? But he followed. Lockhart, it turned out, was sharing a room with someone, but Harry didn’t pay any mind to the other person. He waited, fidgeting impatiently, for the nurse to go—he was afraid to say anything in front of her, just in case she turned out to be…just in case she thought something was wrong with him. 

“Tell us about your heart. And Tom Riddle, and anything you know about Voldemort,” Harry said quite seriously.

“Harry!” Hermione squeaked, and looked over her shoulder. “Um, Professor?” 

Lockhart didn’t look overly fussed. He was a lot calmer than he’d been at the pub, to say the least. “Heart?”

“Your heart, I think.” Harry clarified. “You said something like he took your heart…”

“I did?” Lockhart blinked owlishly.

“Yes. You did.” Harry sketched a picture in the air with his hands, somewhat forgetful that no one else could see the details he imagined. “You gave us two hints; Childe Roland, the Hairy Heart, and…I thought there might be another, because that’s how fairy tales work. In threes, you know. I don’t suppose you missed one?” 

Lockhart hummed.

“Is the graveyard a hint?” Harry pressed. 

Lockhart began to whistle. His hands moved at furious speed, and Harry saw that someone had cut his nails down to the quick. He was pale, his smile long gone. He didn’t look, Harry supposed, nearly as handsome as he had before. 

Harry decided to switch tactics. “Er, tell me about the nurses then. Healers, I mean. Are they good?” 

After several repetitions of this question, Lockwood finally stopped whistling. He perked up a bit. “They ask if I hear voices.” He said triumphantly. “Rather a lot.” 

Harry mulled over this. “Oh. Did they listen to your warnings? About the heart, I mean.”

“Harry! You shouldn’t—I mean, that’s…this is all very hard for Professor Lockhart.” Hermione frowned.

Ron muttered something indistinct. 

Lockhart drew himself up. “I don’t know. I forgot,” he said importantly. “They’ve locked away those troublesome memories… I’m a model patient. Are you hear for autographs?”

“Really. They erased your memories? Are you quite sure?” Hermione looked doubtful. “That goes against the Healer’s Code, I thought!” 

“How does she know about the Healer’s Code?” Ron asked, mystified. “I don’t even know the Healer’s Code, and I’ve been here before!”

“I had to do something while Harry and I were at the house.” Hermione said briskly. “And I wanted to decide once and for all if Healing was a profession I would be interested in, or not.”

“Is it?” Ron asked. 

“No, I don’t think so.” Hermione replied. “Professor Lockhart, are you _sure_?” 

He looked at Hermione out of the corner of his eye, his lips pressed tight. “You would be a very troublesome patient. The Healers would cluck at you.” 

Harry only stared. “You seemed to think I knew where your heart was—you asked me to find it. Is it one of the memories you Obliviated? Or do you mean I can find it if I go look?” 

Lockhart looked at them, dazed. "My heart..." he murmured, and his long hands clenched into fists. He seemed unable to continue though, and his previously exuberant tone turned into a muddled mix of moans and mumblings. He pressed his chest. 

Ron stepped in front of Harry. With one hand, Ron pushed him away. "Harry, why don't you go talk to the nurses about that stigma-what's-it. We'll talk to you, Professor. Why don't you tell us about, uh, your...joined-up writing practice. How's that going? You forgot that from before, did you?" He was eying a pile of practice papers. E e e e e was written again and again, followed by es et ed ef...

Harry decided that Ron and Hermione _thought_ they were better at dealing with fits than Harry himself was. And it might be true, so he just said, "Let me know if he says anything useful about missing bodily organs. I remember the Dementor's dream from fall-- you know, they'd taken someone's heart then. Do you think it was his?" 

Hermione gave him a warning glare and gestured toward the door. “His memory was fine when Professor McGonigal was talking to him at the pub. I mean, he should have still known why he’s famous, and how to write and all. But now he’s practicing writing! Someone must have erased his memories _after_ he left Hogwarts.” Then she added a bit louder, “go already!" To Lockhart, she smiled sweetly and remarked, “Yes, I'm glad they've given you your peacock quill. Harry told me you really like that one."

Out of Lockhart's private quarters, Harry found himself faced with the smiling nurse from before. He stopped briefly to make sure his scar was safely behind his fringe, and walked up to her. "Professor Lockhart looks all right," he said.

She raised her eyebrows. "Yes, he is doing remarkably better. Only one month later-- no nearly two months now! And he's already so functional!" She chuckled warmly. "Now, what can I help you with?"

“I wanted to ask about mentally troubled patients being stigmatized.” Harry said as reasonably as he was able. “One of my other professors said that, um, people who are thought to be a little mad are stigmatized. Whatever that means. Does that mean they’re locked up for good, and not allowed to talk to anybody?” 

“Haaa—” somebody made a strangled noise that might have been the beginning of ‘Harry.’ It was Neville Longbottom. He opened his mouth again and again, warm brown eyes wide with surprise and alarm. “You can’t say that to the Healer! They’re not stigmatizing anybody.” 

Harry nodded politely at the Healer. “Sorry.” He said, and went over to Neville. “So you know about this stigmatizing thing. What’s it mean, exactly?” 

Neville shook his head, his eyes still round, and his cheeks faintly pink. “People talk, I guess. I mean, people think they can’t live outside of the hospital.” 

“Right. So it’s just an idea people have. Are the nurses nice to them? Do they ask for the patients’ opinions, or treat them like little kids?” Harry looked back toward Lockhart’s room and all the others. Neville looked so uncomfortable Harry felt sort of bad. “You’re visiting your parents, aren’t you?” Harry chewed his lip, uncertain how to tell Neville that Dumbledore had told him about Neville’s parents the previous year. “Sorry, err, didn’t mean to say that…” But Harry didn’t stop the flow of words, just the same. “Is your mum ok here? Can’t she live with your grandmother? Why does she have to live in hospital? Do they put everyone crazy in hospital?”

“Harry, you shouldn’t be here. Find Ron and Hermione and go. Please. We’ll talk later—”

“ _There_ you are, Neville. Is this one of your friends? Ah yes, of course. I know who you are. Neville speaks very highly of you and the others. He says you’re very good at Defense, and you and your friends have helped him many times.” It was an old woman; the same style dress that Harry remembered from the Boggart in third year. 

Harry nodded dumbly. “Yeah…. Um…” 

“Of course he never was as talented as his mother and father… Oh, yes, Alice, what is it?” (*2)Neville’s mother had come edging down the ward in her nightdress. She no longer had the plump, happy-looking face Harry had seen in Moody’s old photograph of the original Order of the Phoenix. Her face was thin and worn now, her eyes seemed overlarge, and her hair, which had turned white, was wispy and dead-looking. She did not seem to want to speak, or perhaps she was not able to, but she made timid motions toward Neville, holding something in her outstretched hand. (*)

“Oh. Not again. Well, best take it, Neville,” but Neville had already opened his hands to accept the thing.

Ron and Hermione were coming out of Lockhart’s room, just in time to see the indescribable look on Neville’s face. Sad, expectant and at the same time, gentle and caring. “Thanks, mum.” He took the thing, which turned out to be a gum wrapper, and looked defiantly at Ron, Hermione and even Harry.

“Yes, very nice dear,” Neville’s grandmother said patronizingly, and Alice started to go back down the ward, humming something quietly. “Neville, put that wrapper in the bin, she must have given you enough of them to paper your bedroom by now . . .” (*3)

Neville didn’t say anything, quietly pocketing the wrapper. 

“Come on, Harry… we’ll go see dad. He’ll be home for Christmas, they said…” Ron said quietly. “Isn’t that good news?”

* * *

o0o0o0o0o0o

Back in Grimmauld place, Sirius was happier than Harry could ever remember seeing him, singing Christmas carols as he cleaned. Hermione had already left for skiing and the Muggle Library. 

Harry chewed his lip, looking around for the Absent Elf. “When’s the last time anyone saw Kreacher? I last saw him when we first got here… you were ordering him out… You don’t think he left the house?”

Sirius, who was bringing up a newspaper declaring “MINISTRY FEARS BLACK IS "RALLYING POINT" FOR OLD DEATH EATERS” to Buckbeak’s room, paused. “What’s this? Nah, haven’t seen the old coot. He’s probably holed up somewhere adding to his collection of Black monstrosities. But he _couldn’t_ leave… he’s bound to me, and to this house.”

“But they can leave… Dobby did, to give me that warning back in second year…” Harry pointed out. “Then he did the thing with the pudding.” 

Sirius looked slightly disconcerted for a moment,(*4) probably thinking the same thing as Harry. Kreacher knew some of the Order’s members, maybe even some of the plans. “Nah. He’s probably trying to rescue a pair of my mother’s bloomers or something. Don’t worry about him… I’ll look for him later.”

“Right,” Harry nodded, trying to dislodge some of his suspicion. He didn’t _want_ to hate the elf… Kreacher just made it so easy… 

Sirius’s face was alight again. “Happy Christmas, Harry!” his discomfort evaporated as he pushed the thought out of his mind. “Christmas in old Grimmauld place… Arthur’s doing well, isn’t he? Be home before Eve. We’ll have this place sparkling before then…” 

“Yeah, he’s coming here soon.” Harry took some of the newspaper from his godfather, and together they headed for Buckbeak’s room. 

“Any news about that boy you like? Where’s he staying for Christmas?” Sirius nudged Harry playfully.

“He was kidnapped by a Death Eater.” 

“What? Why don’t you tell me these things?!” Sirius stood stock still. 

“Or maybe by a Death-Eater-Beast Monster. Not sure. Luna thinks it might be the nameless, or the Fachin. Professor McGonnagal says he wasn’t really a student, anyway, ‘cause of his connection with You-Know-Who, so no one can be bothered to look for him.”

“WHAT?” Sirius barked, “Harry, no! Connections to You-Know-Who?”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t really get it either. Haven’t got a clue.”

“And I was sure you were making more sense these days…” 

Harry glared. “What do you mean ‘were?’ I don’t feel any different since last spring... Nice of you all to try and understand me,” he said waspishly. Even Sirius thought he was mad, the git. “But quit commenting on it.”

Sirius forced a laugh. “Seriously, so this bloke…might be a Death Eater. Harry, how do you know he’s not _acting?_ ” 

“Oh, he’s always acting. He acts for the Slytherins, he acts for the teachers, and he plays word games with me. But he understands. It’s like…I get this strange feeling…” Harry remembered their kiss, the strange moments when it almost felt like their minds touched. 

“Hang on, that sounds like he’s Imperius-ing you.” They stopped on the landing, and Harry noticed Sirius was crumpling his newspaper.

“Oh yeah? And do you know you weren’t Imperiused by my dad?! I would think I’d know!” Harry clenched his own fists. 

“What are you getting on about? James and I would never—”

“I know what it feels like to be Imperiused. False-Moody and Voldemort did it to me. It’s not the same feeling at all. Tom didn’t do it.” He lifted his chin and glowered up into the haunted eyes of his godfather.

“James and I were sorted into Gryffindor. That’s proof we’re good,” he said stoutly.

Harry annoyed and angry, tried to keep his voice calm. “Tom wasn’t properly sorted, now was he? Though…he probably does belong in Slytherin. But Wormtail was in Gryffindor. Don’t you forget that, either.” 

“Harry, Wormtail was… he’s the exception. Now I don’t know this boy, or what he’s like…” He sighed. “Just be careful.” 

They stood there in silence for one long moment after the next. Finally, Harry had managed to push the anger down. “These are for Buckbeak to read, are they?” Harry tried to offer a smile. It didn’t quite work. “Going do his rats up in newspaper wrapping for the occasion?”

And so they got back to the task of cleaning the old manner, reluctantly putting the topic of Tom Riddle behind them.

It was Christmas time, after all. They were supposed to be surrounded by happy friends and family.

* * *

o0o0o0o0o0o

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*1) JKR’s plaque. You have got to admire the puns. Ch. 22 OotP  
> (*2) through *4 are referencing JKR’s words. (Especially *3 the paragraph describing Alice, which is a direct quote.) From Chapter 23, OotP. 
> 
> *Singing "God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriphs* if you feel like reading more Sirius, my fest-fic has been unveiled/credited to me, so you can see another couple thousand words of Sirius (!) if you feel like reading it. :) Do read the summary first, though...
> 
> But yes! Lots happened this chapter. Harry actually visited the Closed Ward...and we have some insight on Wizarding treatment of psychosis. Hermione is off to research, and Harry has his godfather to bounce rescue ideas off of. Oh my. ♥ Thoughts?


	20. Coming to terms with the graveyard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape is not happy Harry left for the holidays, and abruptly resumes Occlumency lessons. Harry must come to terms with his fragmented memories from the graveyard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while! Feel free to read the recap, which covers from the prologue to the previous chapter. 
> 
> **Recap:**  
>  Breath, blood, and bone. The required ingredients to cloak Voldemort in flesh once more. However, Voldemort was not the only one to return that night. Tom Riddle was freed from his Horcrux prison, and they witnessed the strange alliance. Harry was made to forget. 
> 
> Harry knew he was dead even when he returned to Hogwarts infirmary, but it turned out he wasn't. He spent a lonely, uninformed summer at the Dursleys. He was unable to come to terms with his severed memories or the changes in his mind. This is a story exploring what it means to be unbalanced.  
> The rest of the Wizarding world is informed of Harry and Dumbledore's break with reality. Articles declaring him and Dumbledore both liars, unstable-- it builds up to when Umbridge is assigned as Superintendent of Hogwarts, and Lockhart is unflappably cheery and somehow eerie defense teacher that year.  
> Back in Hogwarts, Harry's world view shifts as he realizes Tom has come to live as a student in Hogwarts. Tom wastes no time pointing fingers at Dumbledore, and the rest of the school has modified their understanding to fit Tom Riddle in as a quiet Slytherin, a poor boy that's a year younger than Harry. Harry gets detention with Umbridge, and the Beast attacks Hogwarts in September. This is the sign Harry was waiting for-- Tom Riddle isn't evil (he tried to save Harry), and the Beast was attempting to spirit Tom away.  
> With new interest in fairy tales and all-things Tom Riddle, Harry begins Occlumency with Snape. Then Lockhart attacks one Hogsmeade weekend, and the Beast returns to snatch Tom away, successfully this time. Harry and Snape's relationship takes a turn for the worst, and Harry sees Ron's father attacked by Voldemort's snake. Over the winter holidays, Sirius finally learns that Tom is a Slytherin and connected with Voldemort, and it looks like Lockhart's memories have been modified before anyone could question him.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Also, my sincere apologies for being so late. I was swamped with school, research projects, and some stressing and depressing personal things. Sometimes I wonder I bother at all, but on the bright side, that is really good character inspiration. (: I am still looking for a beta, and will (eventually) finish, but I’ve got one more year of Uni and it’s not likely to get any easier

**Chapter 20:** Coming to terms with the graveyard

“And so the prodigal child returns. Umbridge isn’t pleased with you. The acting Headmistress wishes to know what you thought you were doing over winter holidays. Come with me now.” Severus Snape wasted no time cornering Harry. They were met at Grate of the Fireplace, and with soot in his hair, Harry found himself scowling down a familiar corridor. They were heading toward Umbridge’s office. _  
_

Behind him, Ron and his family made a ruckus, but there was no Hermione to forestall Snape’s actions. She was probably on the Hogwarts express, and Snape could easily ignore a bunch of Gryffindor Weasleys hollering at him to wait.

“You know what I was doing.” Harry said heatedly. “I was visiting the Weasleys in Hospital, learning about stigmatism, and enjoying break with Snuffles.”

“You should never have left term early. She is angrier than you can possibly imagine. Do _no_ Gryffindors possess an ounce of sense? What was the _point?_ ” Snape pushed Harry gently, corralling him in the right direction.

This was unfair. Harry now saw that Snape was playing him right into Umbridge’s arms out of spite—he was probably angry about not being invited. Or perhaps still mad about the Penseive.

When they opened the door, however, only the tiny mewls of painted cats greeted him. The acting Headmistress was not in sight. Well. That was odd.

“Where is she?” Harry asked.

“She won’t be joining us until later, I’m afraid.” Snape said coldly.

“I didn’t take anything.” Harry said stoutly.

Snape ignored that. “You see,” he spoke slowly, “I’ve had a lot of time to think about what you did. And I have determined that the root of your…unsettledness…is at the Graveyard. You refuse to let go—to even think about it outright. It isn’t healthy, Mr. Potter, and you _should know_ that I only have your best interests _at heart._ ”

If Snape hadn’t said it so viciously, Harry might have believed him. Instead, he stared stubbornly at the Potions Master. “Don’t you already know what happened? You’re a Death Eater!” He palmed his wand into his hand and prepared to make a shield spell, and just in time.

“I cannot heal you if you refuse to acknowledge what happened.” Snape said reasonably, but his black eyes glittered.

“No.” Harry disagreed.

 _“Legilimens!”_ Snape roared.

Harry managed to deflect it—but not the second volley. Snape had, apparently, suspected he’d rely on spell-work to keep him out.

_He had been tied to headstone, changed to that statue. He had no wand; Wormtail, cursed betrayer, had taken it from him._

‘His servant will be returned to him.’ Why was it Wormtail? The worthless man who’d betrayed his parents. Why had he done what no other Death Eater dared to? Aiding the Dark Lord when he was a spirit? Indisputably, he’d helped Voldemort metamorphose into the evil thing that had risen from the cauldron.

Snape’s thoughts briefly colored his own. He saw Wormtail too, and remembered him—the boy, who never should have amounted to anything, gave the madman a body.

Harry tried to cast him out, he did. But the thorns hadn’t worked before. He thought savagely about something else—anything—that Snape might understand.

“ _Titan! to thee the strife was given._ ” (*1) Harry muttered. He imagined the words on the page. He tried to deny further access to the hated memory, and to give Snape just a hint of an answer. If he answered, wouldn’t Snape stop? He spoke quicker. “ _Between the suffering and the will, (which torture where they cannot kill), and the deaf tyranny of Fate, the ruling principle of Hate. . .The things it may annihilate, Refus'd thee even the boon to die: The wretched gift Eternity..._ ” 

Snape’s concentration was fierce. Harry couldn’t remember the rest of the poem.

 _Voldemort’s body had risen from the cauldron, skeletal and tall. Then the figure had separated itself from the tree-line…the strange man._ He seemed the fairer cousin to the thing accompanying the Dementors in that dream so many months ago. (*2) _It spoke softly, but the man—the thing—was cut down and boiled into a new potion. Another figure rose from the cauldron, smaller (softer) than a Dark Lord had any right to be._

 _He bled on the altar. Then Tom Riddle, vying for power. Harry himself dragged there, his wrists cut and mind swimming in pain and disbelief._ Harry wondered at the significance. The man had been stabbed in the heart, Tom at the throat, and Harry at the wrists.

_Harry had remained paralyzed under the Dark Lord’s spell, while Tom retreated to the trees. Death Eaters Apparated in, surrounding them--_

Harry stood there, rooted to the spot and helpless as Snape rummaged through his mind. He shook his head, found his wand, and shot a wordless hex at his professor. Snape went stumbling into a wall of crying cats.

“Titan!” Harry said angrily. “ _A firm will, and a deep sense, which even in torture can descry its own concenter'd recompense._ ”(*1)

Snape, dazed, croaked in reply, “ _Triumphant where it dares defy, and making Death a Victory._ Lord Byron…yes, I suppose you would have read him.” He sounded unsettled, distracted, and…not angry.

That was fine. Harry was angry enough for the both of them. “I can’t believe you! You think you have _right_ to my memories—that isn’t even—you weren’t even _trying_ to teach me, were you? Not now, not ever. You just use it as an excuse to get what you want.” He gestured furiously with his hands. He was practically seeing red. “You want to know what happened after that? Lord Voldemort Crucios me after having Lockhart—yes, bloody Lockhart—erase my memories. Not well enough. Not nearly as good as he should have done; it’s like little butterflies locked in a glass cage…”

“You’re missing the point.” Snape replied. “Why would the Dark Lord erase your memories when he could have killed you?”

“I dreamed a dream.” Harry said. “ _With mad disquietude on the dull sky. . .with curses cast them down upon the dust, and gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd._ (*3)

“What does it mean?” Snape shouted back, impatience clear in his beady black eyes. “You know what the answer is, don’t you. And you _refuse_ to tell it. You idiot boy—”

“ _And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes_.” 

“He wanted to torture you, yes. I understand that much, but _why?_ ”Snape demanded. He paced around the room tightly, throwing a glance at Harry before shirking away. “The Dark Lord had you at his disposal; he did not kill you. He brought the other one back instead, and twice now you’ve evaded capture—to what reason? Fear?”

Harry thought about this. He picked up one of the pieces of glass that Snape had created with his rather loud crash. It was sharp, clean, and edged in gold. “Voldemort said it was torture. That thing he made Tom from was cursed. Whatever it was the man brought him…it had a curse on it. He meant to give it to me. To strip my wings and make me useless…”

There was silence for a moment before Snape spoke again. His voice was raspy; his face was a still mask of nothingness. “He wanted you to be no threat to him; unable to fulfil the prophecy, or to die where everyone could see.”

“He did try to kill me; it was Avada Kedava…they did the thing—the golden thread…I saw her…my mum. I saw them all…the ghosts, I mean. Dumbledore said it was Priori Incantatem …”

 

“No.” Snape shook his head violently. “That it was not—you want it to be truth and light, but that is only your mind playing tricks on you. Harry Potter, you must try and see truth in _this_ reality. Try not to make things up.” He wanted Harry to be lying so much, so vehemently that he immediately disregarded what Harry said. Was he afraid of ghosts?

Harry started to laugh—and that was when a tiny, wriggling ball of Niffler was levitated through the window. It dropped, and all the little cats seemed to shiver. Harry smiled as it started to leap from one shiny thing to the next…and Snape just happened to be standing amongst the best of them.

“What—” Snape began. “POTTER!”

Harry decided that was his cue; he should leave while the Professor was distracted….the cuddly little Niffler would be trying to suck on his fingers or something, and he really, really didn’t want to see that…So he left Snape to deal with the little Niffler on his own. Umbridge’s office would be trashed, of course, but Harry couldn’t be bothered. Snape would just have to clean it up.

* * *

o0o0o0o

“Well, good thing Umbridge didn’t get to hear anything about that nightmare.” Ron congratulated him. He was idly practicing the Patronus charm next to Harry, muttering occasionally. “You being all jittery though…that’s a sign of depression, that is. Misty, foggy depression.”

“I don’t see how that means Dementors are near…” Hermione replied crossly.

“So we should practice Patronuses.” Ron finished.

“You just want to practice in case they’re on the O.W.L.s” Hermione replied primly.

“I’m not thinking about OWLS!” Ron shot back.

“You ought to. It’s the biggest exam yet, and it’ll affect your job opportunities for the rest of our lives.” Hermione, who had progressed to silvery sparks of her Patronus, carried on a little bit about jobs and the need to review defence.

“Stop staring off into space.” Ron prodded him.

“Yep. Doing that attracts the attention of the Fairy…” Harry agreed. He wasn’t staring into space anyway; he was watching the lake. It was very tranquil—a bit too still, actually, but that’s what it was like in winter. Only their warming charms kept them out of doors and out of sight—Umbridge and the Something-or-other-Squad were supposedly still looking for Harry…for different reasons than the Niffler. Snape was, much to his distaste, a clear witness that it _hadn’t_ been Harry who was doing the levitating. This didn’t stop him from getting detention, though, and Umbridge had to accept Snape’s cover-story: _Mr. Potter was visiting his Muggle Aunt in hospital.._. _yes, quite a coincidence that she should take ill the same time as Mr. Weasley’s family…_

“Harry, what kind of happy thought is it _supposed_ to be? Be more specific.” Ron demanded.

“A really happy one. Sincerely happy.” Harry replied. “The best you can think of…like riding the Hogwarts express with you two. Or drinking cocoa. Or finding out Sirius wanted me to live with him…or…flying…’cept that’s not happy right now, for me. Being banned and all.”

Ron stared him a bit. “…er. Right. So, getting loads of birthday presents?”

“Well, something that’s important to you.” Hermione suggested. “So happy you could cry…that sort of thing.” She concentrated, turning a bit pink as she did the spell again. This time, she was rewarded with a glittering flash of a creature.

“Oh, I think yours likes water.” Harry commented. “Did you know that the Wild Hunt (*4) is either lead by the Huntsman, a dark fairy creature, or the devil? And the reason it’s related to fairies is because fairies are thought to be dead because they live underground. And the Hunt is the damned. Or the dead. Or both.”

Ron turned on him. “That is not in the least bit happy.”

“You’re sharing your findings?” Hermione asked slowly. “What exactly are you researching? Does that have to do with Lockhart’s heart?”

Harry shrugged. “Stories from bards and such are about how the fairy are diminishing, or fading away. Like their time is over. In Midnight Summer’s Dream, Puck is said to sweep away the dust…which sort of sounds like House-Elves, don’t you think?”

Hermione frowned. “Wizards and Witches aren’t necessarily diminished. Just separate. And everyone always says that Fairy Tales are rubbish—real fairies are like magical insects, and House-Elves are like the Muggle stories about Brownies than anything.”

Ron gave a whoop of joy—his Patronus charm had finally misted and glowed a bit. “Did you see that? A noncorporal Patronus!”

“Keep focusing on the happiness.” Harry advised, his eyes still fixed on the water.

Ron and Hermione were bickering again, tossing words back and forth like the gentle waves coming up from the lake. They were comfortable in the old arguments, too. They hardly noticed him staring off at the lake.

Harry thought about his unfortunate encounter with Snape…he couldn’t tell if he’d really been a vindictive act, or a desperate attempt to try and ‘fix’ Harry. But that was besides the point—he hadn’t believed Harry. Then it hit him; Snape hadn’t wanted Harry’s mother to be trapped in Voldemort’s wand. _That would…not be good._ _Eternity in the wand of your killer._

Harry stood, shaking his head agitatedly. He stopped picking at the scabs on his left hand in favour of taking a little walk, slowly approaching the shore. His feet crunched in the snow, drowning out the last of his friends’ words and leaving the too-comfortable warming-charm behind. It was good to feel the cold; he was alive to feel it.

The lake wasn’t so still any more. The wind not so empty. It seemed something called him, some remnant of the feeling that had been plaguing him since… since when? _The Dark Lord—wanted you to be no threat._ And himself, _it was cursed._ Harry struggled to remember, to chase after that thought.

And there it was. A black horse, standing just by the water, its eyes glittering wetly. Harry thought of his godfather, shut up in the old house, and how he’d mistaken Sirius for the Grim two years before. Magical creatures were benign if you treated them right, and the horse… was just a horse… or was it the Kelpie?

It shook its mane hypnotically, and Harry realised he was close enough to see the seaweed in its fur, the droplets of lake water that clung to its muzzle. Close enough to touch. “What are you doing here?” Harry asked it.

The horse seemed to laugh invitingly, just in the way Sirius would when playing as Padfoot playing in the park. He would chase the pigeons and make Harry snort his ice-cream by rolling and leaping with great enthusiasm. Then, he’d lie next to Harry, sprawled out on a bench and watch the last of the leaves fall, hoping for snow.

They’d been in trouble when they got back to the house, of course. Mrs. Weasley had lectured Sirius for an hour, but just given Harry a cup of cocoa and a stern admonishing. Harry stuck around to hear what she said to Sirius, though.

 _You can’t always trust him not to do something dangerous. Especially not now,_ Mrs. Weasley had explained to Sirius, not a week ago. _He isn’t thinking straight!_

 _Of course he is._ Sirius had replied. _He’s just a bit confused about what words to use—aren’t you, Harry? Your reasoning is just fine._

Most of the time, Harry agreed. It was perfectly reasonable to touch the great, black horse by the waterside; the horse wanted a bit of attention. It was probably one of Hagrid’s, after all, and he’d trained the Thestrals to not be death-omens any longer. So a horse was obviously all right. Even if it was a Kelpie and not a Thestral; he knew the stories, the magic he’d need, and really, the mane was pleasantly cool and wet, writhing under his fingers.

“Woah!” Harry said as the Kelpie’s mane wrapped around his fingers, then his wrist. It stung his skin now, nicking at the half-healed words on his hands and stinging as though layered with salt. He had barely any time to adjust before they were off in a mad dash, not unlike the one he’d experienced earlier in the year. He barely managed to hang on, his feet kicking at the water as he tried not to fall. He distractedly thought of the Placement Charm that Professor Grubbly-Plank had used for the bridle. His wand—if he could catch his wand, then this would be a quick romp around the lake, nothing more.

“Harry!” Hermione called for him—her little silvery mist evaporating on the wind. He couldn’t hear Ron.

The Kelpie’s eyes were red, but it whickered so softly. Two more steps—tripping over his own feet—and then he was in the water, colder than he’d imagined possible. _The placement charm._ Professor Grubbly-Plank would not be pleased.

They dove under the icy waves, and the Kelpie changed its form. Strong, dark arms held him tightly, and a mass of seaweed-entangled hair wrapped itself around him. Harry’s cloak weighed heavily, and they plunged deeper still. The moment hung on a thread, all glistening bubbles of air and yellow streams of sunlight bursting around them like the Priori Incantatem Snape was so desperate to disprove.

Harry looked for a way out.

Deeper and deeper they dove, so far and fast that Harry’s ears popped. He knew he needed a bubble-head charm like Cedric and Fleur had done, really, or to Accio some Gillyweed, or he wouldn’t get out of this easily, Placement Charm or no. Bubble-oh, bubble-on, air-o-my, what was the incantation…?

There, in the murky depths of the lake, the sunlight faded. He started to hear music beneath them, and the Kelpie danced to its tune. Its grin was only half human. Harry struggled to hold his breath, black infringing on his field of vision, and Harry saw eerie faces peering up at him, as though reflected through a blue-green mirror. (*5)Something was wrong. _Is it the merpeople? Will they—can’t they—_ no, no, it was different faces. Cold faces with darkly amused eyes that held no colour at all. Someone started laughing. Harry’s vision swam, and it wasn’t the Kelpie any longer that held him—it was Tom.

Tom Riddle, grinning savagely in the dim light, eyes gleaming a cold grey. Harry was so cold by then, so near drowning that his heart near stopped. Tom was warm. Tom held him close, cradled his face and smiled mockingly, his teeth whitish in the green light.

“Why?” Harry tried to ask. Why was he here at all?

When Tom leaned in to kiss him, Harry felt warm air escape his lips…forcing his last breath from him. Even so, Tom’s lips were soft…sliding in and then pulling away, playing with sensation. Harry numbly realized that the only part of him that wasn’t freezing was his mouth.

Then something hit him. It was a blast of hot air, jerking his neck forward in an explosion of pain. Again, again, this time right by him, and then it amassed itself into a bubble of air—separating his mouth from Tom’s, forcing him to breathe.

Another instant frozen in the water. Tom was staring at him, a smile playing at his lips. His hands were still wrapped around Harry, pressing them close. Even with all the fabric weighing him down, Harry was very much aware of Tom’s body…and the air.

The air was so hot it was painful—the water in his throat scratched and burned. He couldn’t see anything for an instant, not even Tom, and then Tom was laughing again, throwing his head back and tossing a mocking smile at a figure still too far off to see properly. Harry choked on the air and tried to make sense of things.

Fact: it wasn’t really Tom. Secondly, the music was gone, the eerie faces all but a memory. He was wrapped tightly in a Kelpie’s arms, and that Kelpie happened to look like Tom Riddle…Harry blearily cast the Placement Charm at the Kelpie as the figure drew close.

It was Ron—Bubble-head charm in place and frowning severely. That warm, stinging sensation was him too; he’d started to perform the stunning charm before Harry wriggled and tore himself out of the Kelpie’s embrace. He managed to leave most of the heavy fabric behind and swam closer to Ron. His lungs protesting (still half convinced he was drowned), Harry felt Ron put an arm under him and haul him upward.

He was cold…barely aware of whatever the Kelpie did under the waves, barely aware that only his magic or Ron’s kept it from drowning them both. They swam for long moments that seemed a frozen eternity of green and blue pieces of sky and water.

They surfaced. “Harry, you idiot!” Ron gasped. He swam on, and Harry finally propelled them along to the shore. By then he was too cold to do anything more, and concentrated on coughing up half of the lake (the Giant Squid, even if it was hibernating, would not be pleased if he didn’t give up the rest of the water.)

“What did you let it take you under for?” Ron demanded, his voice shaking.

Hermione was casting warming charms on Harry even though he and Ron still had a foot in the water. “We need to get him dry and warm. And for heaven’s sake, Ron, put him down so he can get some of that water out of him!”

Hermione and Ron managed to haul him, sopping wet and missing his school robes (he suspected the Kelpie had kept those), toward the castle. The last thing Harry remembered clearly was thinking that Madam Pomfrey probably wasn’t interested in hearing about the music…or the eerie faces under the water. Then he passed out.

* * *

 o0o0o0o

(Tom)

“Is that the best you can do?” The man sniffed. “You’re brooding, and not about the clouds, or even of an enemy of yours. If you are to fulfill your end of the bargain, and we are to do as you ask…”

I shifted in my seat, but was careful not to let my expression change. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“That is because you are captivated by the exceptional quality of our tea. Here a bit of hazel-berry, there a sprig of mint, stir counter-clockwise and ask the tea not to get chilled. Yes, yes, perfect for winter.” With twinkling eyes, the man turned away from me.

I did not say anything, though he probably was expecting a compliment or two, an alternate recipe (even better), or an outright argument. He did not do well with silences; I suspect there are a few too many of those for him to enjoy any more.

“Do you dream of the castle?” he asks. I knew he would speak soon. If you stay quiet long enough, he’ll fill the silence with chatter, and in that jumble of briars, thistle and straw, he’ll spit out something worth knowing. “The object of the Nameless-Shade’s(*6) desire is there. He will take it from you. He will keep it.”

“Potentially.” I replied reluctantly, wondering if he spoke of Harry. My thoughts spiraled in on the Boy-Who-Lived, and the circumstances of my resurrection from that silver band.

The man laughed and it sounded like the wind through the reeds. “Do you know love? I understand it is one of the great mysteries for wizards. They have some locked in stone.” His eyes were dark and black as those of a beetle.

“Speaking of mysteries, there is a boy—”

“The Boy-Who-Lived? Weren’t we speaking of him all this time?”

“He cannot die. At least, not when Voldemort attempts it.” My thoughts spun around that simple fact. Was it because of the Brother Wands? Or did it have more to do with _who_ was doing the casting? I wondered if the outcome would be the same if I were to utter those words. To try and kill the boy who-would-not-die.

“If you break it, you’ll find it difficult to reenact the breaking.” He said simply. “The bones grow old, the blood dries…and all you are left with is the memory. Haven’t you had enough memories?”

Well. Some memories return—others evade me. I wonder how much Harry has remembered…with Lockhart’s spell damaged, I can recall lying there on the stone, the cut of the knife, and the power that flowed between us. Voldemort had been a fool to send the child home immediately. Or had he not intended for Harry to leave the graveyard, and foolish pride let Harry escape? Efficiency should have been his first concern.

It was time to leave this place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*1) “Prometheus.” Lord Byron, 1832.  
> (*2) See Chapter 7: The Kelpie, and Dreams  
> (*3) “Darkness.” Lord Byron, 1832.  
> (*4) The Wild Hunt is an ancient folklore found all over Europe. In essence, there is a large band of rather scary figures who are led by a dark and evil man. Often they’re mounted on dark horses, accompanied by evil-looking dogs (similar to the Grim in Potterverse). The object of their hunt varies with the telling: either supernatural beings, sinners, a wild boar, or young maidens (innocent or not depends on the tale). The leader of the band is either the devil, a king of faery, or a king. The men following are either his retainers, the souls of the dead, or more faery.  
> (*5) "Down deep, under the waters of Lough Neagh, can still be seen, by those who have the gift of fairy vision,the columns and walls of the beautiful palaces once inhabited by the fairy race when they were gods of the earth. . .[they are] distinctly visible in calm, clear water, under the surface of the lake; and still the fairies haunt the ruins of their former splendour, and hold festivals beneath the waters when the full moon is shining; for the boatmen, coming home late at night, have often heard sweet music rising up from beneath the waves and the sound of laughter, and seen glimmering lights far down under the water, where the ancient fairy palaces are supposed to be." ~F.S. Wilde, 1887 in _Ancient Legends of Ireland._
> 
> Underwater habitations of the fairies aren't as common; Briggs suggests they tend to be Celtic. There are also parts where specific fairies live in a specific lake. Fairy tales are cool.
> 
> (*6) because The Dark Lord needs more acronyms. (; Harry’s got a bunch—so Voldemort deserves more. XD Just kidding…
> 
> So, do let me know what you found interesting. ♥
> 
> EDIT: (July 2017): I'm not sure I'm going to write more on this. As I mentioned in the A/N in CH3, I'm writing about this topic to explore how people/society sees nerodivergent people. especially people who are 'less in touch with reality.' But I've been really struggling personally with my own issues for two years now, and felt like I had to step back from writing this story. Lots of people telling me they were 'confused' discouraged me, and made me question what I was writing and generally wasn't very healthy for me. I know that's not what most of you were trying to say by telling me you were confused-- it just feels different when it's a story that deals with madness than when it's purely fantasy. Purely fantasy means its plot, and I can distance myself. But it's so much harder to be distant with this one. So I'm taking a break. Unless I get a supportive beta or commenters to help me carry the load, the pressure and burden of my life and fretting about if people like this story is too much for me right now. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Even though I'm not writing on this one anymore, I still wouldn't mind hearing from readers about my writing, the plot, or characters. I love you guys!!

**Author's Note:**

>  **Do know** : I love comments. Words from readers are the best!
> 
> Thank you for reading.


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